


Quo Warranto

by elessil, Hippediva



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barnyards, Curses, Intrigue, M/M, Rebellion, battles, sentient ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 47,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elessil/pseuds/elessil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story starts at the beginning of AWE, from where things take a different turn. We have blown canon out of the water, sent it down with the Kraken and created an alternative tale whereby James Norrington finds himself responsible for Port Royal and the fate of the West Indies.  Along the way, Norrington finds himself burdened with unintended duty, unforeseen consequences, and one particular uninvited compatriot.</p><p>Story is complete in 14 chapters.</p><p>There are action illustrations with some chapters, which go from G-Rated to X-Rated. The X-Rated ones will be linked within the text rather than shown directly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Colonial Conundrum

**TITLE:** Quo Warranto  
 **AUTHORS:** [](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/profile)[**hippediva**](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/) and [](http://elessil.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://elessil.livejournal.com/)**elessil**  
 **DISCLAIMERS:** The Rodent Empire owns them. We pilfer.  
 **PAIRING** : Jack Sparrow / James Norrington  
 **RATING:** from gen to XXX. This chapter--PG-13.

There will be action illustrations in later chapters.

SUMMARY: This story starts at the beginning of AWE, from where things take a different turn. We have blown canon out of the water, sent it down with the Kraken and created an alternative tale whereby James Norrington finds himself responsible for Port Royal and the fate of the West Indies. Along the way, Norrington finds himself burdened with unintended duty, unforeseen consequences, and one particular uninvited compatriot.

 **Quo warranto** translates as “By what warrant/authority?” and in most English legal systems is a prerogative writ requiring the person to whom it is directed to show what authority they have for exercising some right or power they claim to hold.

The air was sticky and still as those moments just before a storm. Port Royal's familiar rocks were all but lost in a blanket of fog that would have done a London winter proud, save for the oppressive heat that made it stick in the nostrils.

As eerie as the misting shroud that cocooned the city was the silence. Even through the worst fog, one could always hear the sounds of the dock, but they were missing, leaving only the slap of the waves and the creak of the timbers beneath James Norrington's boots.

The mist-soaked wool of his uniform weighed down his shoulders as he stepped down the gang. Two marines, alone on the dock, approached. "Admiral. Lord Beckett expects your report."

Norrington raised an eyebrow, but when they turned and left, he followed.

The paved streets were as empty as the docks, stone washed clean with the recent rain, gleaming almost white underneath the mist. No curses of coachmen chiding their horses, no screams of mountebanks, not even a shouted fight over some triviality or other. A single coach sped by, the hoofbeats echoing on the empty streets.

Beckett's office seemed lively in turn. The chandelier overhead was lit, flames reflecting in the warm polished wood of the large desk. Norrington straightened and waited for Beckett to acknowledge his arrival. "Milord."

Lord Beckett set his teacup down. "Ah, Admiral. How good of you to come so promptly. I trust the fog did not impede your journey?"

"If it had, the waters around England could scarcely be sailed," Norrington said with a tight-lipped smile. "Naturally, it did to some extent limit the potential success of a reconaissance mission such as this."

"I was afraid you would say that." Beckett's immaculate wig nearly matched his plain linen, giving him rather the air of a papist priest. "After all, a little fog around one port cannot have put a stop to your entire mission." His blue eyes were mildly questioning.

"To the mission, no. But merchantmen prefer to seek safe harbour rather than sail out when squalls are clearly imminent."

His lordship toyed with a quill. "Your report, my dear Admiral, cannot possibly consist of a weather report and empty harbours."

"Milord, if there were more interesting matters to be reported, I would have mentioned them at the first opportunity." Norrington crossed his arms. The tale of the Dutchman was well known, and while it was one thing to accept to be robbed for safe passage, it was quite another to face Hell itself in the shape of calamari.

"That cannot be a good environment for proper business. It makes one wonder how the local merchants can possibly continue. Their debts will be pressing." Beckett regarded the tall man before him quizzically. "Perhaps they require more security from the Naval powers in these waters, don't you agree? Please, sit down, Admiral."

Norrington glanced at the chair. "If you would forgive me, Milord, I would prefer to remain standing. I have no wish to soil the upholstery with my soaked coat." He paused. "As regards Naval protection, I fear there is no way to protect from... the forces of nature."

A slight tightening of his fine-shaven jaw indicated that Lord Beckett was not pleased with his trained Admiral. "Perhaps your presence aboard the Flying Dutchman would help to restrain those forces. In the meantime, since your last mission proved so futile, I hope you can help to restore order here in Port Royal."

Norrington blinked and paused, listening to the stillness outside. "Were there any incidents of which I am not aware, Milord?"

Beckett's smile was, for once, nearly genuine. "My dear Norrington, you of all people should know that Port Royal has been overrun with all manner of scoundrels for some time. It has become necessary to institute some order. There is a general curfew in effect and I would be gratified if you would attend to the Fort. Your aides can inform you upon your arrival."

Norrington saluted sharply. "If you will excuse me then, Milord."

"Oh, and Admiral? I will expect you at the Point in two days' time."

"I was not aware a pirate ship has been captured, Milord."

"Collaborators." Beckett shrugged. "Dismissed."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Norrington stared, at the gate to the gaol, the glaring sun, then the pile of nooses, down at his shoes and again at the gate. There was movement behind it, the sunlight illuminating the blue and scarlet of marine coats, and between them, the faded grey of the prisoners' shirts. Collaborators against the grand cause of good business. Useless, in the way, no more than a chore to get rid of them, chosen not primarily for their deeds but to instill fear and obedience amongst all.

He looked down again, but this time, not at his shoes. Nooses, too many to count surely from where he was standing, ready for the wide platform.

Efficient, certainly. Easy to hang crews of pirates in as little time as possible. Time saved on trials, time saved on executions. He had brought far more men to the gallows than were waiting to be hanged now, but each one individually, each one for their crimes and their crimes only.

A shaky voice, the rising notes of a timid song, startled Norrington. He straightened, looked right ahead. What did it matter? Death was death and punishment punishment, whether it was dealt on a single gallows or a platform that held nearly a dozen. All found guilty of a crime by the authority of England. That should have been enough.

A marine lifted his musket to shove the singing boy with it, but Norrington raised his hand, stopped him. The prisoners walked onwards. The wood of the platform was new, but it creaked as they were marched onto it, each coming to stand underneath one of the nooses, circular shadows harsh on their pale faces.

Before they even had stilled, a voice rose, sharp and clear, accusing all the prisoners of collaboration with the enemy and pronouncing their sentence: death.

The last words echoed in the courtyard. Of what were they guilty? Of trade and business not blooming as Beckett had expected? The charges said nothing of that, no word what two dozen scarecrows had done to England and its Crown to deserve their fate.

Norrington remembered standing in this very courtyard for the first hanging he had observed, the first hanging where he had been the one to bring a man to justice. He had been sickened, he had been proud, but above all, he had been sure. Sure he was right, sure the punishment was deserved.

"Might as well be Tortuga, 'cept ye'd get a fairer rate o' exchange thereabouts."

"Mebbe so but I've got a wife an' kiddies t'support."

"Send 'em up there now, mate. Twill save time later."

The comments bristled with laughter that was fury, from a crowd gone cold and nervy; a potential army facing another, tense and suspicious.

Norrington's hands were clasped tightly behind his back, squeezing as he flinched. But he didn't look away, he watched as each of the nooses looped around a stringy neck. The singing became louder, taken up by the waiting crowd like a funeral dirge.

A marine stepped forward, bellowing to the executioner. The drumroll started.

"Stand down!" Even over drums and song, Norrington's voice was clear.

The drumroll lost its rhythm. The executioner stopped to stare, and the marine turned to Norrington.

"Sir?" The question was clear. Norrington asked himself that very same question.

"You heard me, marine," he said, voice clipped. "Stand down. And remove those nooses."

"Sir!? Lord Beckett's order was clear!"

Norrington turned on his heels, eyes cold, face tight. "As is the chain of command. _Stand down._ "

"You heard the Admiral! Step to!" Groves' voice, combat trained and clear, was accompanied by one hand on his blade. Within moments, the ropes hung empty, all eyes turned towards Norrington. "Orders, sir?"

"Let the prisoners go," Norrington whispered, resigned. "Let them go!" he repeated, louder. He stood still, watching as one by one, the prisoners rubbed their sore hands, their necks, then stared at him only to bolt off mere seconds later. The marines, too, stared at him, but he gave no reaction. No reaction until even the last prisoner had limped out of the fort's courtyard. "Disperse the crowd," he said to Groves, hoarsely, then turned on his heel and left without another word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Norrington knew he did not have much time, but as he walked home, he still paused to look, to notice taverns and alleys he had walked past a thousand times. Anything but to think. He had disobeyed a direct order, done something he had never before and never before even dared to think. Ignored an order because he considered it wrong. He laughed sharply. Mere months ago, he had resigned his commission because he had thought himself incapable of bearing responsibility for a crew; incapable of making the decisions required by his command.

And now, apparently, he was certain enough to defy where no decision was left to him.

The stairs creaked as he walked up to his bedroom, a ghost house for the ghost of the man he had once been. He tore wig and hat from his head and the coat from his shoulders, throwing them from himself in a fit of temper he had learned on the streets of Tortuga.

He realised that for the first time, he had been dealt an order he considered wrong. Not simply an order with which he disagreed, but one that was _wrong_.

Perhaps his resignation had been right all those months ago, and he had never been a man of the Navy. Had never been able to follow orders, not when it was difficult. Perhaps he had not mutinied against Sparrow solely because it had been _Sparrow_ , but because mutiny lay in his heart? Because he was as disloyal as a pack of buccaneers?

He paced through the small room. A blue sleeve that peaked out of his closet, pinched by the door, stopped him. He stared.

He _was_ a man of the Navy. He still felt every bit of the allegiance he felt when taking his oath, young and with fire in his heart. Every bit of that same conviction. But none of that was reserved for Beckett, none for the East India Trading Company, he held nothing but disgust for that pack of vultures that might fly the same flag, but did not strive or fight or stand for the same.

He laughed. To this he had not sworn his allegiance. In this he had never believed, as little as he had believed in Sparrow's goals. And though he would be shot for acting against his oath, he knew that to himself, he hadn't.

Slowly, he unbuttoned the yellow waistcoat, then his breeches. Mere minutes later, he glanced up and saw his image in the mirror, a crooked smile on his face, the white breeches and white lapels of his Naval captain's uniform a less familiar sight than they had ever been. But it was the shroud he always thought he would wear, and so he would.

 

From the shadows of doorways and windows shuttered tight, hundreds of eyes followed their steps lit with slow-burning hate. Big Bill paused as he hauled the morning catch and spat, tossing a bucket of fishguts after them. Molly Perfect, newly awake after a hard night of tumbles and gossip, leaned out of her window to empty the chamber pot further along the deserted street, leaving a stinking puddle for the tramping boots. Port Royal was quiet, but far from complacent. The news of the Admiral’s surprising act had spread like a wildfire.

Ould Sawrie hefted a bale of hay into the sideyard of the Three Pennies Tavern, cackling as the goats butted each other, kids bleating after the nannies. "All alike, ain’t they pretties. Goat fodder. Like as not, ye'll get a pair o’ boots by t’morra. Fancy the Admiral bein’ so decent. Aye, me pretties. Eat up."

Lieutenant Connor stopped at Norrington’s door. He had orders to break it down but a healthy respect for the Admiral’s housekeeper, and an even healthier regard for her culinary skills.

Mrs. Thornton threw the door open, her face like a thundercloud. "You lot track mud over that floor an’ I’ll wallop every man-Jack o’ you!" She twisted her apron in her hands, grey eyes blinking back tears. "He’s upstairs an’ if you’ll let me announce you."

Connor removed his hat and bobbed a bow: no matter what that blackguard Mercer said, he was not going to insult himself out of a fine treat on the sly. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Thornton, orders are to fetch him prompt-like."

"What a pity when I’ve muffins in the oven already."

Connor grinned at her and turned to his men. "Cool yer heels, boys, an’ we’ll get the Admiral and some breakfast in the bargain."

The soldiers milled along the path to the kitchen garden and Mrs. Thornton quickly sent Maryann up to warn the Admiral, but from the stairway, Norrington already cleared his throat. "It would seem you are looking for me, gentlemen?" He offered his sword in its sheath. "I do believe one of you is required to take this from me."

Connor’s hand shook as he accepted the sword, the marines closed ranks and all Port Royal watched through its collective fingers as the one man who had dared to take a stand against the East India Trading Company marched through the silent streets towards the Fort.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Cutler Beckett resisted the impulse to stretch his cramping leg. The tinny French clock had just chimed four. Both feet were pins and needles and his left arm felt like lead, but every time he wanted to move, Signor would explode into Italian paroxysms.

Mercer slid in like a shadow. "Milord." Beckett had to keep his lips from twitching at the sudden nervous darting of Signor's eyes.

"I think that will be all for today, Signor." Beckett's voice brooked no objections and the painter collected his brushes, grumbling, his considerable head of hair speckled with paint and bristling like a hedgehog.

Mercer shifted so he could watch Beckett and the door at the same time. "The marines arrested Norrington. Unfortunately, he did not resist."

"What a pity! He's going to be something of a problem, I imagine." Lord Beckett held out an imperious hand to get off the dias, "We'll have to have a trial. How are the rest of the Navy crews reacting?"

"They praise his past and do not condemn his future." A knife gleamed in Mercer’s hands for a moment. "He is dangerous."

"More dangerous as a martyr." He paused delicately. "Perhaps a trial will make things clear to them. Meanwhile, keep our men guarding him and try to keep any sympathisers away from his cell. I don't want a failed commodore making waves. Not now. "

"He would hardly make a good martyr if he hanged himself in his cell."

Beckett brightened immediately. "Not a bad consideration. He sipped his tea and flicked a nonexistent speck from his cuff. "Alas, we must make his dereliction of duty clear. In the meantime, make sure he's secure. Have we heard anything from the Eastern fleet yet?"

"Not yet, but the latest couriers to come in were with Norrington."

"Let me know if we hear anything." Beckett gazed at the large map on his wall with a satisfied sigh. The Company was active on every continent and he was very near to having as much control over the West Indies as he'd established in Bombay. "That will be all, then."

Mercer bowed, dark coat billowing around him, then disappeared through the door.


	2. Res Ipsa Loquitur

The morning of the trial dawned bright and hot, and already the crowds were gathering in the courtyard of the Fort. The gates were thrown open and as many as could fit into the Officers' Mess were milling about, sampling wares from various hawkers and partaking of the refreshments, supplied by a few publicans at Mercer's command. Free ale always created a crowd. Beckett took a moment at his office window to survey the swelling crowd. "That should make them appreciate the Company," he murmured. 

The Officers' Mess was the only place big enough to hold so many avid onlookers and orange sellers glided amid the crowds hawking their wares and themselves, while tankards were kept filled. The chairs in the front were cordoned off for Beckett and his Company men. It didn't have quite the same effect as a proper courtroom and much less decorum, but Lord Beckett's entrance quieted it a little. 

"Sweet Mary", the Rose and Crown's favoured filly, held court in one corner and winked at Mercer so often, one might have thought her afflicted with myopia. On the other side, a group of ladies, not proper ladies, but the toast of Port Royal, displayed their best frocks, surrounded by officers more interested in their charms than the Admiral's fate. 

It was unfortunate that the company's colour did not have the impact of good English scarlet and black judge's robes and their wait in the kitchen passage had already blighted a good mood and wilted much fine linen.

The roar of the crowd rose to its climax, and then, suddenly there was silence as a dozen marines entered and amidst them Norrington, his bare head clearly visible over their tricorns. His unshaven face was a contrast as stark as the white lapels of his uniform against the marines' blood red. His steps were in time with theirs as they marched forward.

Most of the ladies in the crowd sighed and chittered amongst themselves as Norrington took his place in the dock. Even with nearly a week's growth of beard, the Admiral was a fine figure of a man. Jane Sillitoe turned to whisper to her companion, "Just look at him! A proper Navy uniform, too. My, that suits him admirably." The lady beside her smiled from the cover of her all-enveloping veil and raised one small, impeccably manicured finger to her lips as the 'baliff' or someone pretending to be him shouted for order. "Hear Ye, Hear Ye. Court will come to order. QUIET down there!" 

The judge advocate, Captain Eames, rose and read the charge. "Admiral James Norrington, you stand accused of neglecting your duty. Violating a direct order, you let enemies of the crown escape their punishment to wreak further havoc against King and Country." He lifted his hand towards the judges' bench, chairs on a few planks nailed together to form a small stage. "These judges have heard the charges and will now hear your defense against them. They will decide if your dereliction of duty was excusable, and what punishment is warranted. Speak now, and explain your negligence in carrying out the orders you were given." 

Norrington glanced at Beckett, at the judges – three men rather than five, as though they were at war, Company tradesmen all of them. He turned to the judge advocate – of the Royal Army, not the Navy, but the only commissioned officer at all - and addressed him. "I will not make any excuses." He paused, eyes fixed on Eames. Beckett thought he would grovel to save his life, his honour. His honour was indeed what he intended to save. 

He almost laughed when now he did turn to Beckett. "I will not make any excuses because there is nothing to be excused. I did not obey Lord Beckett's order because I challenge it. I challenge his order, I challenge his authority, and I challenge this court. I deny the East Indian Trading Company's right to determine the law, to suspend the rights that made England what it is. I deny their right to slaughter the citizens of this town for greed and profit."

He took half a step towards Eames, the marines stopping in their tracks as he raised his hand and stood, voice louder but still rough from days of silence. "I challenge that I should be tried by a delegation of tradesmen that calls itself a court martial rather than by five of my own, when not one of these _judges_ ever held a sword but for the purpose of selling it. When not one of these judges has ever fought for any cause but money and power." 

There was a low murmur in the crowd and breathless silence from the watching Company men. 

He straightened as he once more turned to face Beckett rather than the judges, who averted their eyes. "I challenge the East India Trading Company's authority. They have no right to the property of merchant sailors, no right to order the death of English citizens, and no right to occupy these waters as tyrants. They have no right to condemn me for serving England."

"So no, I make no excuses. I do not ask for leniency. This _court_ ," he drawled, "may kill me, but they will not have my acknowledgement or my respect."

"Hear! Hear! The poncy bastard's right! What do we need of a company here?" The flat New England voice boomed from a Boston trader in the crowd.

With other merchants in the crowd voicing similar thoughts, it didn't take but a moment before the Officers Mess of Port Royal resembled nothing so much as a cacophonous hen house.

In the chaos, Norrington turned, eyes darting across the crowd. One face was missing: Governor Swann. He frowned, then noticed one pale face that should not have been there, dark eyes behind a green veil looking at him, quiet amidst the ruckus.

Behind him, Eames was attempting to speak, words incomprehensibly drowned in the uproar. Norrington raised his arm, and like the marines had stood down, the crowd quieted, the shouts and complaints subdued to a low murmur.

Eames seized the moment. "Admiral Norrington, the East India Company charter gives it full powers. You are in grave danger of pursuing treason."

"I do believe I have trod beyond mere danger." Beckett's face, white as his shirt, was tense but motionless when one last time, Norrington addressed him. "The company's charter is valid for the East Indies only, and one might discuss its legitimacy even there. But anyone who considers it applicable here is either incapable of reading a compass, or of reading at all. I swore to fight for England, its Crown and its citizens. And that oath I have not betrayed."

A curious change came over the crowd. Perhaps it was the bilious ale Mercer's minions served, perhaps it was the account books of the merchants, showing losses due to Company taxes. The Boston trader uttered a loud huzzah and poured out his tankard on the floor. It was followed by a sea of beer flowing, due to the slant of the building that always made the officers laugh that dining in the mess was quite as bad as dining shipboard on high seas, toward the Company men's expensive buckled shoes. It was oddly reminiscent of more than one mess Norrington could recall on Guy Fawkes Day. 

Eames looked around rather desperately. "I call for order! You have defied a direct order from the Company while under their command, sir!"

Norrington stood, unfazed. "I do believe you missed my point, Captain Eames. Let me put it simply. I serve England, not the Company. And I shall always choose to do right by England and its citizens, not the Company."

Lord Beckett rose. "This is a farce." Without another word, he swept out of the room and hurried down the kitchen passageway, his thoughts in a whirl. Mercer had been right. It would have been easier to deal with a dead Norrington. Fortunately, that could be put to rights quickly enough. 

The pale lady in the green veil tapped one of the Navy officers with her fan and murmured a few words before quietly leaving. She was observed by the demimonde of Port Royal, who betook themselves and their fancy frocks away, much to the Company's distress. 

Mercer ordered his own men to clear the mess but the order was barely necessary. The cheering had faded and there was no one left to evict from the premises save the Royal Navy officers. Their faces betrayed nothing but their posture was straight and tall as the Admiral's. 

The judges' deliberation was too brief to even lead out Norrington. Finally, Samuel Destries, rich by inheritance and eager for power, rose. "James Norrington, this court finds you guilty of treason. You are hereby stripped of your rank and commission. You have defied a direct order and by that, violated the Articles of War. You are a traitor to King and Country, and the penalty imposed on you is death. You will be shot by tomorrow's first light. May God have Mercy upon your soul."

For all his boldness, Norrington was afraid, afraid as he had been as Midshipman who'd charged forward with fiery blood that froze when he stared down a Frenchman's bajonet. But this had been his choice and fear would not help him now. "And may He have Mercy upon Port Royal," he drawled.

The Navymen rose as one, every single man of them saluting as the guards surrounded the prisoner to escort him back to his cell. There was a deafening silence as he passed them.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Charles at night had always been rather sombre, particularly down in the cells. There used to be the odd yells and singing of a prisoner or two, but it was now quite empty, save for one corner cell. Reeking and damp, the smell of low tide nearly overwhelming the stench of the empty, uncleaned cells, all was silent. A slow drip of water, a faint scrabble of rats; these were the only sounds to break the monotony of the waves breaking against the cliff below.

Norrington stood in the corner, shaded, listening to the waves slap against the stone walls. He had not sat down since the guards had escorted him back after the trial. He wished it was pride that stopped him, but he had slept in filthier quarters, crowded aboard a ship or worse, cowering in the streets of Tortuga.

He could not sit because he could not bear to be still; then he would not see the tiny barred window, would just watch the rats dart around in the moonlight, gnawing at the bones that scruffy dog had left everywhere in the gaol; because he would feel that his sword was gone, that his chance to fight was over.

Perhaps that was why he had defied the court: the knowledge that the fight was over already, and that he would rather go down with the sinking ship than scurry like one of the rats crowding this gaol. He'd heard himself called brave by those who confused recklessness with courage. There was no bravery in not thinking, no courage without anything to lose.

Now he did think about the next dawn, now he did think about losing his life; and now he was scared. He did not regret setting those prisoners free, and he did not regret standing for that decision. Yet still, he regretted being here, even if it was a direct consequence of his actions, a consequence he had known and accepted. So why regret? Or was that simply fear? 

"Psst? James?" 

Groves could barely see Norrington's teeth reflect the light in a laconic smirk. "Theodore. Your costume hardly passes for a priest's." 

Groves flashed him a smile, shuffling his rag-muffled boots and peering down at the lock. "Best I could do at short order. Some speech, sir! You really gave them a start." He fumbled with the skeleton key and kept his voice very low. "Ready to break out of this brigand's lair, Admiral?"

"I do believe I was stripped of my rank today as I am certain you heard." Norrington leant back against the cool stone wall. "And while I appreciate the sentiment, there is little point in you losing your commission as well."

Groves snorted, "Piffle! As if that circus had any authority with the Royal Navy. Glorified tradesmen!" His face was almost entirely obscured as he worked the key but his tone spoke volumes.

"With our powder magazines." Norrington smirked, slightly crooked, then straightened and moved over to Groves. "Theodore. I am serious. Know that I value your loyalty and thank you for it, but I have no wish for you to get dragged in this misery. I will stand for my actions, but I will not have anyone else in harm's way. I have tried running. It is not for me, least of all when others have to pay for it."

Groves grumbled as he rattled the lock. "Sir, is there anything to be gained by letting these puffed-up charlatans shoot you? This is treason, man! They're subverting proper English law and you know it! What right have they to even charge you? You're a Navy man, above that rabble!" This all spewed out of his mouth in a breathless rush, followed by a satisfied grunt when the lock turned.

Norrington barked a laugh. "I resigned my commission," he said sharply, "and when I took it back, it was from Beckett, a reward for a deceitful sleight of hand. They might be rabble, and they might make a mockery of our law, but I am not above them."

"If we don't fight them and wipe them out, the West Indies will become another India." Despite the ridiculous rags he wore, Groves suddenly appeared larger, more imposing. "Can you really wish to simply be another victim of Beckett and the Company? To be added to the roster of civilians he's murdered in the name of 'business'? We need you, James. Port Royal needs you. The Crown needs you to be what you've always been: a leader and a man of honour." 

Norrington sighed. "What leader? Of a parade being led to their executions? I will not be that."

Groves’ eyes darted as a thump above reminded them both of the guards. Lazy as they were, they weren't deaf. "We need you. There are more of us than you would imagine. Beckett's been terrorising the whole West Indian trade for months now. From what I hear, it could lead to war on more than one front. Come with me now. This is our only chance."

"For what?" Norrington whispered harshly. "What on earth do you except I could do other than run like a meek coward?"

"Sir, there is talk of an agreement between all three of those powers. The Dutch are not going to give up their West Indies trade as easily as they did in the Far East. There's even talk of barring the East India Trading Company in Charleston and Boston! We need a live leader, not a dead martyr. You know these waters better than any commander here, sir. Port Royal is near to complete collapse and with it, England's safe trade, no matter what that pompous runt thinks." Theodore Groves was not a patient man. He was a soldier of the Crown and a man of action. He might not be particularly eloquent, but he could be persuasive. "James, there is no time."

"Time for what, Groves? I am but one man. I might have spoken against the Company's authority, but there is nothing I can do. I only have two hands, and as fate may have it, no sword. I urge you, leave, and at least save yourself."

Groves shoved a sword into his hands, wrapped in a threadbare cloak. "It may not be a commander's sword, but it's good English steel. Will you use it, man? "

Norrington stared at the glinting steel and when he looked up at Groves, his eyes were cold and determined. "So be it. I may as well go down fighting." He grinned, his smile still crooked. "Lead the way."

"Come. The trap entrance below. I have guards waiting." 

It sounded easier than it was to get to the 'trap'. Norrington remembered it as a vague rumour from his lieutenant days. There was little time to ruminate at all since the snoring guards were not snoring and the path to the trap passed by them. 

Groves and he exchanged a glance and a nod, cursing inwardly as they approached, first slow and silent, then a rushed final step. The surprised breath of the guards never turned into a shout; instead a low grunt and a thump as they fell unconscious to the floor.

Groves kept grinning the rest of the short trip down a little-used corridor under the Mess Hall where a half dozen 'ragged' men were waiting for them.

With a grim smile, Norrington raised his hand in a salute. "Gentlemen, I do believe we have a mutiny on our hands."

"Aye," McIntire's broad Scot's burr was hushed. "An' a long time comin' it's been. Welcome back, sir. " He led the way down narrow stone steps and they travelled in silence, lamplight bobbing off the close walls. 

The tunnel's exit was well-hidden by the fishing dock, far away from the Company ships clustered in the harbour. Originally built to effect a safe escape for the governor long ago when the French had been such a threat to Jamaica, the tunnel was little used in Norrington's time, yet there were no cobwebs or rubbish along its length. 

Groves signalled with a lantern, then doused it. "We have a jollyboat to take us out."

Norrington shook his head. "Not yet. Leave without me. I will follow if I can. But there is one thing I gave to Beckett, and if there is to be any hope, we need it back." With those words, he turned on his heels and darted away from the harbour, back into the town.

Groves lunged forward to grab his arm, missed and growled at McIntire. "You, men, back to the ship. Send the fishing boat back for us." He had to run to catch up to Norrington. "James, are you mad?"

"Quite possibly so." Norrington fell still and pressed against the wall as a patrol of marines passed by. "Stay behind," he hissed under his breath, "and trust me when I say that I must do this now."

Groves gulped. "I can at least provide cover." He'd trust James Norrington in battle and storm and was not going to start quibbling about orders.

"If I knew a way to stop you, I would. But I will not waste my time trying." 

As they slinked through the market, the stink of fish and blood was heavy, the sweet scent of overripe fruit mixing with that of meat. They approached Beckett's office – once the harbourmaster's, but now occupied and glorified by the Company to lay their claim on any arriving ships – from the far end of the harbour, skirting on slippery paths down the cliff.

The two guards had no time to raise an alarm before they were struck from both sides, collapsing with a muffled grunt.

"Keep watch," Norrington hissed, rifling through the guards' pockets. No key that fit the lock. He forced the keyring until it bent straight and attacked the lock with both ends.

It had seemed easy when bloody Sparrow had done it on the Pearl, had opened and closed a locket without its key, merely to keep his hands busy as he slouched on the rail, cheerfully pointing out which spots of the deck Norrington had supposedly missed. Finally, the lock clicked.

Groves stood guard outside Beckett's door. He heard Norrington's soft footfalls within, the faint scrabbling of mice, the creak of the wind in forests of yards and masts in the harbour. His eyes strained down the hallway, heart beating so hard that he felt sure Norrington must hear it. 

Norrington did strain to hear a heartbeat, the one he had once already felt against his own chest, like he felt his own hammering now as he stood in the middle of the room, his eyes accustoming to the dark. 

He stirred through the cold ashes in the fireplace, through the mantlepiece atop it, careful not to disturb the meticulous order. He rushed to Beckett's desk, pulling the drawers open. Nothing, not where Beckett had put the heart when Norrington had handed it to him. 

He bent low to examine the desk, fingers rushing over polished wood to find a seam, any hidden compartment. Then he heard it, faint but steady. 

Thump. 

Thump. 

His fingers slipped and he ran them over the surface again, then pressed his ear against the cold wood. Silence. 

As he crawled under the desk, his feet hit something hard and the chamberpot fell over, rolling out from under the desk. 

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Hastily, he grabbed the pot to put it back in its place, and there it was, a steady beat against his fingers, alienating but still familiar. He snapped open the lid and the sound became louder. Inside it was, still pulsing in the filthy linen bag he had given to Beckett.

He took it out, replacing Davy Jones' heart once more against his chest, the slow beat unnerving on top of his own, faster and less steady. He stuffed a rag from his pockets back into the pot, carefully stowing it underneath the desk. 

He stumbled to his feet and towards the door, stopping short at the glint of steel in the moonlight.

It was a rack of swords, trophies from around the world, and among them hung his own blade.

The last time he had left Port Royal without a rank, he had left his sword along with his commission, had left it behind because he did not think he deserved it. He looked outside to where Groves stood, glancing left and right and then at him, restless, but holding his ground, then back at his scabbard. With a glance out to where the Union Jack used to fly, he took his sword and ran.

They ducked behind a rock, both breathless. "Governor Swann?" he asked. "Where is Beckett keeping him?"

Groves raised a brow. "The governor hasn't been seen in Port Royal for over a month, James. Last reports were of 'acute indigestion following a Sunday dinner.' But seeing as that came from Mercer's toadies, none of us gave it much credence."

Norrington shook his head. "Can you sail alone? Where is your boat?"

Theodore grinned at him, despite his confusion. "That might be a problem. Sir. She's over there." He pointed to the massive Defiant, rocking gently in her berth. The successor to the doomed Dauntless, she was enormous, a first rate ship of the line, manned by over 600 men, her rows of gunports shaded like lazy lids. The sky had turned from deepest black to a hazy charcoal and the gulls were beginning their morning screech. 

"You might be a better sailor than Turner and I than Sparrow, but still, we could not sail a first-rate on our own."

Groves' grin spread until his face had a weird resemblance to that pirate's, minus the gilding. "Oh, we won't have to man her ourselves. She's fully stocked and ready for a patrol." 

Norrington fell silent as the wind carried the low whispers from the Defiant to them. He did not understand the words, only heard the turmoil of voices, many voices. Who, according to Groves, all believed in words he spat out merely because he no longer had anything to gain by being silent; voices of men who still had everything to lose, and still listened, who would now wait for him even when he told them to run. These were men who would wait even it meant their doom, only because he could not bear to leave one single man to his.

He stared inland, then turned to the harbour abruptly, resigned and resolved at once. "Lead the way."

A line was already in place for them as they approached the huge Defiant and, in the growing light, Norrington could see that she was trimmed and ready to sail, as were at least a half-dozen Navy ships of varying sizes along the dock. But it was the welcome aboard that stunned him to silence: every man jack aboard had served with or under him these past eight years. Every officer was on deck, waiting. Connor spared a wink for Groves and hissed "Attention!" Voices were low, no whistles or drums, but it was clear the Defiant was welcoming her commander.

At first, Norrington thought their escape had been discovered, the other ships, slimmer and faster than the Defiant, ready to block her way out, but nobody glanced at them, all eyes on him. _They were allies._ Two thirds of Port Royal's fleet presence was ready to sail, ready for his command.

He thought he might have felt the same way when he first commanded a prize, had felt the same awe and the same fear of letting down these men's trust as he did now, but if he had, years of command had erased that memory. Again he gulped, then raised his voice to an urgent whisper. "Gentlemen, raise anchor and make way. Morris, bearing sou-sou-east. Torres, signal the fleet to follow."

"Heading, sir?" Groves turned to him, his face a proper military mask, but his eyes twinkling. 

Norrington turned, grasping the rail and letting the thrum of the ship drown out the thumping of Davy Jones' heart. The wind hissed into his face, strands of hair dancing on his forehead. "To a berth that can be found only by those who already know where it is. We make for the Isla de Muerta."


	3. Heathen Curses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one G-Rated Action Illustration in this chapter.

The house in which the majority of Port Royal’s male society gathered that night was perched on one of its main thoroughfares, discreetly set back from the street to present a distinguished appearance. Inside, the chandeliers twinkled over the brocades and lace. The guests were as well-appointed as the rooms and most of the officers were glad to raise a glass and chatter in the surety of their owner's discretion.

Around the spinet, Lt. Merriman surprised everyone with his talent for amusing songs. The young women flirted with officers and smiled behind expensive Chinese fans.

"Well, I heard he demmed near had apoplexy! All I can say is good for that fellow Norrington!" Sir Joshua Clack had his eye on the youngest and prettiest girl and was most gratified with her attention.

"He'll come to no good." Merriman sniffed and sampled the madeira. "Although I must say it’s a sight quieter here. Where th’ devil d’ya think they went? It’s not as if the whole Navy’s gone."

"Ah, but they are! Gone. Scuttled. Ran off." Clack gargled into his glass. 

Merriman snorted over the piano. "Much good that’ll do them. They’ll all head to Tortuga and that’ll be an end to it!"

Mlle. DeVrie giggled and Sir Joshua forgot the Navy with a grunt. "Bloody sailors and scum. Not like the Army. Proper gentlemen there." After all, without those chaps hanging about, the Company officers stood a better chance with these lovely French fillies. There was no sense in arguing that the Company men were glad to be rid of such competition.

Other, more junior officers flirted hopefully and grumbled between smiles among themselves. "Beckett’ll be snortin’ fire, don’t you know. Means a deal more work for us all now. Bloody runt of a fool." Their pay was, alas, not sufficient to aspire to any of these ladies, the cream of Port Royal’s demimonde. But they could hope and dream and, of course, consume Mlle’s fine wines.

Louise swayed from group to group, laughing and listening, her kittenish face frozen into a sugary expression.

Sir Joshua settled himself and his gout in an easy chair. "I do think it a damnable shame this Beckett carries on so. He made a packet in India, but .....y’can’t treat Englishmen like wogs, can ye? Bloody fool. He’ll ruin us all, you watch and see."

One small shoulder shrugged in its cocoon of Valienciennes lace. "The parties will be much lacking."

She sighed and immediately, four officers, two junior subalterns and two of Port Royal’s richest merchants rushed to ease her mind.

Sir Joshua, who had overindulged in Louise’s madeira, chuckled. "Don’t you worry, my girl. We’ve no intention of becoming some eastern backwater here! We’ll take good care of you!"

"I heard he dove under his desk and scrabbled about in the chamber pot!" Merriman laughed. "What the devil would he do that for?"

A young man, a rather junior lieutenant newly arrived in Port Royal from Bombay smiled. "He did indeed! I saw it m’self. He seemed quite put out."

That was a mild description of Beckett’s ire, although 'towering rage' could not possibly be used as a metaphor, the gentleman being so short. 

"Nothing but a rag in there and it made odd sounds. Ticking, I think."

Sir Joshua snorted. "What nonsense! He’s lost the Navy and full fifteen hundred of ‘em have run off with Norrington. Serves him right for givin’ the man back his post. When an officer resigns his commission, it should be taken as final, don’t you think?"

"Hear, hear!" Merriman refilled their glasses, pausing to admire the decanter.

Louise smiled at the young officer. "Tick tick? Why whatever could he have had in ---" her rosebud mouth pursed "...in such a place."

The boy’s eyes were dazzled and he leaned closer, enchanted by her perfume. "Rumour has it Lord Beckett claimed the heart of Davy Jones."

She struck him lightly on the arm with her fan. "This is, I think, a fairy story, no?"

Young John breathed in her scent and wondered if she, too, had no use for sailor’s tales. "Ma’am, if it’s true, Beckett seemed content to hear the noise."

She smiled. "In his chamberpot?" They laughed and John gloried in sharing another glass of very fine wine with her, and the promise of a gavotte later, when the dancing would start.

 

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The damp was all-pervasive, seeping from under rocks and misting stone walls, sticking in the nostrils like the stench of death. Lanterns lifted the gloom inside the Isla de Muerta, but nothing could dispel the chill wet that sank into bones and stiffened muscles. Some twenty officers glanced round, awestruck and silent.

The charts of every Navy vessel that had followed Norrington were spread out on a makeshift table of crates and the commanders' low conversation nearly drowned amid the slow lapping waves that buffetted the cave, within and without.

The Isla de Muerta had never seen more living men and still the cave swallowed their voices, the questions on how to keep the ships stocked, how to find the seamen badly needed to properly crew the ships they had taken, and above all, how to free the Caribbean of the Company's clutches.

Norrington knew his words were empty, he knew he had to speak them anyway, and though he knew these men were too experienced to fall for them, he also knew that they believed them, for the same reason they could believe in fighting for a King they had never seen or heard speak.

They looked to him and nodded, hopeful as one by one, they left to speak to their crews, and left Norrington alone inside the main cave.

The wind howled through the cave's labyrinth like the cries of the damned, echoing and fading to whispering moans. Reminded of a battle he still didn't quite believe, Norrington shivered and glanced at the stone chest. Its lumpy, savage carvings seemed to mock him in the lamplight. 

So this was to be their berth, this was where they would take their final, doomed stand. He bit back a barked laugh, afraid of what it might sound like amidst the hollow rock. He had led them here, to this mist-shrouded graveyard, because for now, they would be safe here. There would be time to rethink, time for many to run, to escape unscathed. And for the rest of them, it would be the best position to fight an impossible fight.

He paced the cave, relishing the solitude, as the men preferred to stay aboard their ships to daring the damp, eerie caves. Now he wasn't trapped by bars, but rather by the expectations of the officers who had just left, by the expectations of the men that followed them. Who all expected a miracle from him, as though the Company was quite the same as a few errant pirate ships, as though a fleet of seven ships behind him was the same as the entire Caribbean presence of the Navy.

In the silence, between bouts of whining wind and the ever-present sounds of the surf, there was another noise, subdued but insistent, pounding from within his coat. Thump thump thump....monotonous, regular, unnerving. It mingled with the unearthly chill and the stone figures of the chest seemed to grin and mock in rhythm.

He forced himself to still, to walk back to his makeshift desk and sit down. He closed his eyes. Thump. Thump. This he had, the heart of Davy Jones. Beckett's trump was now his, only that he had no intention of playing it. That was his victory, righting one of his mistakes.

It was one thing he had done against the Company that counted. He had fought before, alongside these very men, had sometimes lost, sometimes won; and sometimes even in defeat achieved a victory worth the fight. They might be on sinking ships, but he would not know for sure until they tried to bail water; they might struggle in a hopeless battle, but they would never know for sure until the alarum sounded. It was worth a fight, and even if he would not be able to fulfil the hopes set into him, he could at the very least try his damnedest. He owed them as much.

He shuffled the charts until he found empty parchment and a quill. If he called Beckett an usurper, he would have to do so to the right ears. London had to hear about this, and had to decide if it cared what the Navymen here thought, or if it only cared about continuing channel wars with the French.

Thump. Thump. The quill scratched as he dragged it over the paper, the line bending with every thump underneath his coat. The steady beat of the cursed thing kept interrupting. He had little more than a detachment of men, a budding war on his hands and his head was being invaded by a monster's beating heart. It was more than discouraging.

He pulled it out and put the sack onto the side of the desk. The wood vibrated with every thump, louder now that it wasn't muffled by heavy wool. Every time he thought of a word, another thump pushed it from his mind. 

Again, he jumped to his feet, restless. No wonder Jones had cut out that bloody thing if it made so much noise! It must have been impossible to hear his organ over the sound of it. Norrington snorted and pulled the source of his anger out of the filthy linen.

The heart was just as filthy, a slimey, bloody thing that apparently would not dry out no matter where and how it was kept. A dripping, constantly thumping reminder of the Dutchman's curse. Norrington sneered. He was quite tired of having to deal with heathen curses. One less understandable and more gruesome than the other.

The carved figures on the stone chest still grinned at him. He glanced at them, then the heart in his hand and marched over. The golden medaillons glinted in the moonlight, marred by drops of dried blood on them. "Bloody cursed coins go bloody well with bloody cursed hearts," he hissed under his breath as he tossed the heart atop the medaillons and threw the chest closed.

Why the wind should have chosen that exact moment to shriek through the cave's tunnels with all the force of a Biblical apocalypse, he couldn't imagine. Nor could he quite believe his eyes when the entire dank place seemed to fill with fog. The screaming wind had a voice. A painfully familiar voice that was screeching "BLOODY BUGGERY HELL!" And through the fog, Norrington saw something large and dark. There was a mighty splash in the middle of the lagoon and that all-too-familiar voice again complaining. Loudly. With oaths aplenty.

"Oh f'the love o' God an' all his little fishies, wot now?"

The fog cleared and Norrington stared down at the dripping figure, his eyes wide. He wasn't sure exactly what had just happened but he knew that it boded ill if it carried such cargo.

He didn't know how, he didn't know why, and especially he didn't know what he had done to deserve this, but he did know how to react. Sword at Jack bloody cursed Sparrow's throat, he hissed, "On your feet."


	4. Crossing Lines

Jack gnawed on the handkerchief in his mouth with a sour glance at Norrington’s straight back. He tapped one foot in time to a tune in his head and watched the navyman look his way with distinct annoyance. He tapped some more. He tried to sing and it emerged as gurgling. 

Norrington crumpled up the parchment and threw it in Jack's direction. He took a new sheet and forced himself to think of words rather than how Sparrow's tapping sounded much like Jones' heart, only more annoying still. As soon as he thought that perhaps Sparrow had grown tired, there was more noise.

Jack promptly started a tap dance with both feet scraping against the stone cave floor.

Another crumpled letter barely missed. "Next time, I'll throw the quill."

If Jack could have, he would have stuck out his tongue. As it was, his eyebrows waggled and the rhythm changed, became faster. ‘An’ a bloody how d’ya do to you too, Commodore’ he thought with a grimace. He warbled a snippet of a shanty that erupted like a bilious bird trying to lay an overlarge egg.

Norrington was a man of his word: the quill bounced off Sparrow's boot. He was scraping at a new one and cut himself. Cussing, he reached for his handkerchief, but it wasn't there. Instead, it was not fulfilling its purpose in Sparrow's mouth.

It was spit-soaked and tasted extremely nasty and, had he been able to talk, Sparrow would have launched into a query as to the uses of said handkerchief and what in hell Norrington had been doing with it before using it for so shabby a purpose. As it was, he just kicked and tapped and imitated the sounds of dyspeptic cattle.

Norrington shoved back his chair, a loud scratch of wood over stone. He stalked over and roughly ripped the gag from Sparrow's face, then untied him. When Sparrow's lips were just spreading into a grin - and certainly, yet more noise - Norrington hauled at his collar and punched him hard enough to send him reeling.

"OW!" Sparrow’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of his own hair. For a moment, there was silence, then the pirate leaned on his elbows, regarding Norrington with an aggrieved scowl. "I say, Norrington, that’s not exactly cricket, hitting a man when he’s down, is it?" He slid forward on his backside very suddenly, legs entangled around Norrington’s and yanked him down, rather enjoying the surprised yelp. "Yer a naughty creature! Didn’t th’ Navy kick you out?"

"Pulled you up first," Norrington panted, grabbing Sparrow by the collar, "but allow me to rectify that." He kicked his knee into Sparrow's stomach, then grabbed him and held his face down. "How about we remember this as the day Captain Jack Sparrow almost shut up?"

Jack grunted, inching his free hand up to poke the now-filthy white breeches. Norrington started, Jack tucked and rolled, landing a punch in the solar plexus before kneeling above him, still grinning. "Almost shuttin’ up an’ silent as the grave, mate. Almost works, too." His knees kept Norrington’s arms immobile.

Norrington pulled up his legs and slammed them into Sparrow's back, jerking sideways, until he had one arm free to shove his elbow into Sparrow's stomach. "The almost referred to Captain," he gasped.

Sparrow’s boot heel grazed his head, then bore down across his throat, forcing him down. Jack rolled aside, clipping him in the jaw. "From an almost scholar an’ gentleman, I’m sure!"

Norrington grabbed Sparrow's hair and hauled him into his next punch, fist crashing against his ribs. Norrington heard the hiss of air and shoved until he had the pirate immobilised underneath him, forcing his arms down. "You as non gentleman and even less scholar would indubitably know," he panted.

Squashed under the Navy was not the way Jack had intended to end the fight at all. The weight of Norrington’s body held him fast. "Slander an’ lies! I can proof an isosceles triangle when necessary!" He wriggled and squrimed to no avail. "Parley?"

"Sparrow, the entire point was to _stop_ you from talking." Norrington rolled off and rose, brushing off his coat, both eyes warily on Sparrow. He breathed in deeply and reached into his pocket to pull out his flask. The rum burnt on his split lip and he tried not to think of bar brawls in Tortuga.

Yet, that was how he had acted now, like the drunken fool incapable of containing his anger. Far too long had he given in to it, ever since Tripoli, drunk on fury and grief, loss and wild rage. Was his anger and hate truly all that he had left, the man he had once been drowned with his crew in that storm? Had he lost not only his men, his ship, but also himself there?

He had been a leader once, and now he was a leader once more. They had chosen him, and now he was left with the choice of what sort of man he wanted to be. And it was not one who rolled around in filth, trying to forget and duck and drown out responsibility in anger and rum, but one who faced it.

Jack’s eyes followed the flask longingly. "How ‘bout an accord, then? I can’t talk if I’m drinkin’." He managed to look exactly like the street urchins who cadged for pennies every time evening when Norrington used to leave the Fort. "Rum fer silence? Sounds rather a good bargain, aye?"

Norrington snorted, "That would depend how long that silence is." He rubbed his jaw. "Your rings make for a surprisingly mean left hook."

The pirate made a quick inventory and seemed to have all his bones intact. "An’ you kick like a mule, mate!"

"At least I do not think like one."

"Smell a bit similiar, but there’s no accountin’ fer bunkmates, is there? Listen, Commodore. I just want a drink!"

"Actually, it is Admiral now. " Norrington tossed him the flask. "Nevermind. Captain will do."

"Congratulations. You seem to have gone through a bit of a sea change, mate. Looks good wif a promotion, too." Jack meant to sound sarcastic but it didn't quite emerge with the necessary edge. He was sure Norrington had had as bad a time of the last however-long as he had, although it was clear the Admiral had been provided with more rum. For the next two minutes, he wasn’t precisely silent but certainly, the rum helped to clear his head and make him feel more like himself. "Rum is good," he remarked to no one in particular.

Norrington raised his eyebrow and glared.

"Wot are you doin’ here anyway?" Jack tried to squeeze a few more droplets from the flask.

Occupied with checking his ‘effects’, he stole looks at the Admiral and tried to get his bearings. Without a weapon, there was no chance of winning against Norrington. Therefore, more devious means would be necessary. Jack wished there was more rum.

"Much as I doubt your ego requires further feeding, I do believe the story of what you are doing here is far more interesting."

"YOU did that. Leastaways, I think ya did although I haven’t the slightest idea how. Did you miss me so much ya had to come back here?" Jack removed one boot to shake the pebbles from it.

"Sparrow, that you would believe that is yet more proof for my low opinion of your mental abilities," Norrington sighed. Jones' heart on Sparrow's dried blood. Two horrible curses combining to his personal curse. "I assure you, I had and have no interest of seeing you. Unlike Lord Beckett, it seems, although it appears he has more inclination to see people who would rather not see him."

Jack followed his glance from chest to himself and back again, a slow smile tugging at the corneer of his lips. "How very interestin’. An’ why should you not wanna be seeing Beckett? You got some kinda fear o’ dwarves? Or do you not like yer new commander?"

He removed the other boot and wiggled his toes. "Then again, I wouldn’t wanna see him again either. He’s a rotten cheat."

Norrington blinked, then glanced from his desk back at Sparrow. The pirate knew Beckett, knew him as an enemy. "Do tell."

"Ah, but this is empty, an’ since I don’t see any available refills, I must regrettably decline yer kind invitation. Of course, a small keg could prove ample persuasion." Norrington’s been hangin’ about wif Beckett, all right, he thought.

He tossed the flask back to Norrington with a grin.

"I suppose it might." Norrington smirked. "It might also give me incentive to speak of a certain tale as to into where the treasure in this cave really sank, namely your coat pockets." The lamplight bounced off his teeth. "Now that would hardly be conducive towards you ever finding a crew again, would it?"

Jack's eyes narrowed. Really, Norrington had become far too savvy after his time in Tortuga and that would bear watching. He shrugged elaborately. "Seemed like a good idea at the time, mate. An' my pockets never could hold that lot."

"That would be due to the holes in them," Norrintgon's shrug was quite eloquent. "Be that as it may. I shall keep my silence on this if you break yours on Beckett."

Much too savvy by far! Jack's lower lip thrust out in his best pout and he treated the Admiral to a pair of eyes more suited to a begging puppy. "Aw right, aw right, luv. I know when t'fold. Silence an' a bottle?" 

Norrington heaved a sigh. "Fine," he barked. There was another moment of silence as Norrington had the bottle fetched, then tossed it to Jack, watching the man's all too tangible relief. "And Sparrow, really? Pear-shaped?"

"That was Gibbsy's touch. I suppose we all should be glad it weren't purple porpoises." Jack grimaced and cracked the seal of the bottle and took a long, satisfying swallow. "Now, what did ya want to know about Milord Midget? I do hope you haven't been playin' cards wif him. He cheats, and he's pretty damned good at it."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first order of business was fresh water. Along with a detachment, Groves' jollyboat hugged the shore of the tiny island, close enough to Isla de Muerta. "Haul us in and we'll split up into four groups. Any hint of a stream, fire off a shot." Groves jumped into the surf and set off with his men southeast, prowling cautiously through jungle, beating aside fern fronds with musket and sword. It was hard going. The tiny beach gave way to a tangle of underbrush under a canopy of green that made them all look seasick. The made Groves grin, his mildly eccentric sense of humour able to laugh at a greenfaced rabble, scouring water at sword's point.

The marines laughed as they walked up a small hill, already thinking of rolling full barrels down it later. They were confident there would be a stream, and if they could not see it yet, that was only due to ferns and trees blocking the sight on anything more than twenty feet away.

Groves stopped and signalled Jenkins with a grin. "I'm off to see a man about a dog. Keep working your way up that rise." Jenkins nodded and they pushed ahead, beating down the bracken and sending the small jungle residents scattering as they trudged further into the sticky heat of the jungle floor.

Groves headed back towards the shore and found a lovely little spot, overhung by flowers and smelling more like a capital place for a tryst than a convenient latrine. He hummed to himself, well-pleased with Norrington's sudden decision to lead. James could use a sense of humour, but he was a magnificient commander with a real knack for oratory, once he stopped thinking. Groves was of the opinion that too much thinking was generally bad for most men. It only confused things. A sudden monstrous flapping made him turn as a covey of birds took wing.

And there, in the water, close enough to see the ornate carvings of her quarterdeck, dark sails shuddering in the breeze, was the Black Pearl. He stared, squinted, then stared again. What the devil was Sparrow's cursed ship doing in these waters? And why hadn't he seen her masts on their approach?

Theodore Groves did not much like mysteries. He preferred solid realities. But he knew that ship too well; had followed too many order chasing her; had braved hurricane and cannonade in pursuit of her. She was a prize he wouldn't dream of abandoning. He crept closer, mesmerized by her dark beauty, his heart hammering.

The marines worked their way further up, round the rock, and this time, the rush came from a stream, not leaves. Jenkins had just aimed his pistol to fire a shot when he saw sails. Sails of three ships, and the biggest ship's sails were torn, much like her barnacled rump and keel. He fired. And then he shouted. "Back to the boat! It's the Dutchman!"

Groves had waded out as close as he dared, but the Pearl just sat there in the water. "Black Canvasback, ripe for a shot!" he muttered. He left his coat on the shore and swam towards her.

There were no shouts, no warning shots, just the waves lapping at her black hull and the creak of her timbers. She seemed utterly deserted and Groves wondered if his men would encounter Sparrow's crew in the jungle. Well, he thought, there's more than one way to skin that cat! He hauled himself aboard.

She was deserted. Utterly empty. No sooner was he daring to prowl when he heard a shot. And the black ship began to move. She turned her prow eastward and the sails bellied so quickly, Lt. Groves was tossed to her deck, fixated on her wheel that spun without a navigator.

The timbers underneath him thrummed as the sails caught wind and the beachside rushed by until the Pearl was clear of the coast. And then he saw them, along the eastern coastline: Two ships that flew the Company's colours, and another, darker. The Dutchman. All of them were headed towards where in the distance, he could see the Vigilant's masts.

Jenkins reloaded his pistol and again fired it, then barked at two marines to do the same. The shots were swallowed in the jungle of ferns as they scrabbled back to the beach. One of them found Groves' coat, but here was no time to wonder what had become of him. In scant, breathless moments, they were pulling towards the ever-present fog when they saw her---the Pearl---her black hull a streaking shadow on the waves as the Dutchman sped in pursuit.

Aboard the Pearl, a shimmy and roll of the deck sent Groves crashing into the capstan. "DAMNATION! This is ridiculous!" He got himself to his feet, planting them far apart to brace himself. She was moving fast, out to open sea and he couldn't for the life of him figure out how. That's when he saw the sails behind him. He didn't think. He didn't have time. He took the wheel and she flew like a bird with the wind.

From the Vigilant's stern, Jenkins stood and stared, watching the Company's ships give up their pursuit: no matter that they had the wind quarter astern, no matter that they could have made it to the Vigilant until her sails were fully set and her anchor weighed. They were after bigger prey. It was almost as though he could hear the Dutchman's growl as she took off after the Pearl.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Norrington was blankly staring at the chart on his desk. Groves missing. The first venture of their 'rebellion', a simple matter he rarely had to worry about, already a failure. A good man lost, missing, captured - who knew when there were as many different tales as men had been on that mission?

He forced his attention on the chart, to check island by island - which one was big enough that it might have water, which one sufficiently unknown to use it safely. But his chart was Navy issue, was the same one Beckett's men used. He curled his fist. Another man lost, another lost to an idea that James Norrington chased with passion, into hurricanes and rebellions if need be, without heed for common sense.

Sparrow may have been called after a garden bird, but he had the eyesight of a hawk. "Havin' a bit o' trouble wif restockin'? "

Norrington's head snapped up and he blinked before he returned his attention to his desk.

The pirate rattled the iron, just to make sure he was aware of them. He watched the former admiral's eyes, mentally ticking off each local island with every blink. He knew them all too, and a few James Norrington didn't suspect existed. "I noticed yer little sailors boiling pots o' bracken. Suicide by dysentery, mate? I'll stick to yer rum supplies, thank you very much." He lounged, toying with a bit of rope. His movement made the chains jangle and reminded Norrington of a mangy cat playing with a mouse.

"Rest assured, the rum supplies will run out before the water supplies. And I would not forgo the pleasure of hanging you by poisoning you."

The pirate shrugged. "Did yer nanny scare ya wif the drapery cords, mate? I thought you needed water."

"Sparrow, it is evident you have not the slightest affinity to clean water, so I fail to see the need of you stating the obvious."

Jack shook his head, jingling in harmony with the chains. "You have no idea." He had a brief memory of pitiless sands and 'no water' in a way Norrington could not possibly comprehend. Hell, he couldn't do much comprehending of it himself. It robbed him temporarily of wit. "Suit yerself." he sulked.

Norrington grimaced and turned away. The worst thing was that Sparrow was right. He had chased rum runners for a decade, had found dozens of hiding places, and still did not know half of them. They weren't all deserted piles of sand, he knew that too. And so did Sparrow. Which was decidedly irksome.

He sat there, then broke the silence. "Assuming that you do know of water, I suppose that you have little use for it."

Jack's head tilted back and he stared at Norrington down his own nose until he went cross-eyed. "Mind ya, I've no interest in yer little problems, but I would like to get out of this bloody cave before I mildew along wif His Majesty's Finest."

He paused for a moment, uncrossed his eyes and leaned closer. "I'd say that a fleet wif water might have a fighting chance. And it's only a matter o' time before His Diminutiveness comes nosin' around fer you. I'm sure they're not happy you've gone missing. No one likes an execution wifout an exectuionee."

Norrington raised an eyebrow and looked at Sparrow pointedly. "Oh, believe me, I do know that." He chuckled darkly, a rough noise echoing through the cave. "Which is why I would think you would be glad this rock has no gallows."

Jack rolled his eyes and bit his lip hard to keep silent.

The silence stretched and whenever Norrington's eyes met the pirate's, he looked away. Suddenly, he stalked over so quickly Jack was afraid he would lay him out again.

Inches away, he stopped and eased himself down to crouch at eyelevel with Sparrow. He swallowed. His pride to not give up to this pirate had cost him one ship already, had cost his comrades' life, had cost the very self-respect he tried to preserve. He could not afford that again, not if it only cost that pride and once more, his self-respect. "Relish this as you will," he said quietly, "but I need your help. I am asking for it."

Jack thrust his chin forward, his nose almost even with Norrington's. "Asking for it? Oh my. This is so sudden."

For a dangerous moment, Jack's lips twitched, which made his moustache quiver, which nearly made him sneeze. He grinned and batted his eyes. "So water, aye? " Jack poked at him. "Aye? Oh dear. You've gone all broody again. You're supposed to haggle wif me."

Norrington blinked, then grimaced. "Sparrow, without terms, there is little to haggle."

Jack swung himself onto the makeshift desk. "Mate, you really are in a bad way. Where's yer chart?"

"I believe you are making an ass out of it," Norrington remarked, shoving Jack aside and pulling the chart out from under his behind. "And of yourself."

"OW!" Jack fell, tangled in the chains. "Willya get these offa me!" For the next few moments, he resembled a marionette who had collided with a large harp and made just about the same kinds of noises. "Are you gonna just sit there like a bilious jellyfish?"

Norrington's lips twitched. "I do believe this is where _you_ are supposed to haggle."

"Oh bugger!" For effect, he kept trying to kick the leg irons off, humming along with his percussion. "I can keep this up all day, y'know."

With a sigh, Norrington held out his hand. "Fine. Up."

The irons' rattle echoed like a bad stage play. "Yer not gonna start chasing me with a rope. Y'know you do have quite a mania about 'em."

Norrington laughed. "Sparrow, this time, you already _are_ clapped in irons. You have nothing to lose. Same as I."

"Says the man who forced me into close quarters wif the worst harridan it's been my misfortune t'meet. Awright then. You don't kill me, I'm not a prisoner and gimme the bloody chart! You've gone an' missed at least a score of good spots." In the interests of liberty and other pursuits, Jack pulled himself up by Norrington's hand and gave it a quick shake. "We have an accord, then."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sparrow's island was little more than a pile of sand raised above the water, a few trees and large rocks. The four marines he had taken along secured the jollyboat in the small bay and Norrington followed, forcing a shackled Sparrow to walk in front of him.

He could already hear the stream trickling by and see the light reflecting off it where it curved around the rock. He nodded at Jenkins. "Bring out the barrels and refill them. I will scout the area." He prodded Sparrow's back with his sword. "You'll come with me."

"Don't seem to have much of a choice in the matter." Jack disliked chains as a matter of principle and trudged ahead with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy back to class. "There's no where f'me to go, you know. And stop stickin' yer blade in my back, willya? I'm beginnin' to suspect you of taking liberties, mate."

His eyes darted sideways, following Jenkins and his flask longingly. Jack's thoughts skipped ahead of himself. He knew exactly where he was: the little islet had proved restorative often enough in the past. All he needed was the ship and a lockpick. Losing the marines would work up a sweat, no more. But Norrington? Jack glanced over his shoulder at the implacable, if imperfectly shaven, face. "You've no sense of adventure, mate."

He growled 'mate' through his teeth and nearly tripped.

Norrington had him by the collar and hauled him straight. "Sparrow, making sense of your bearings was sufficient adventure for me." He had not believed Sparrow at first, but here they were, on solid ground, a small stream rushing beside where they walked, sand and drinking water where his chart showed only salt. They turned and took the small rocky path uphill, following the stream to its source.

"It's incomprehensible t'me how often people don't believe that I'm tellin' the truth." Jack panted. "Honestly, honesty is very complicated." He stopped and turned to flash Norrington one of his irritating grins as the vista grew out of the jungle, complete with a small but respectable waterfall.

"Which would be why you do not try it very often, I imagine." Norrington sighed. He only wished he know about _what_ Sparrow had lied _this_ time, if it wasn't the obvious.

He listened to the waterfall and suddenly grabbed Sparrow by the chain. He released the manacles for a few seconds, and looped the chain around a large tree branch, secured by a fork, then snapped them closed around Sparrow's wrist.

"That should do." He nodded to himself and stalked toward the stream, dropping sword and clothes at the riverbank. He breathed a sigh of relief as the water poured down on him, washing away weeks of filth and the powder of his wig as much as the stench of the gaol.

In the history of dirty looks, there may have been a few that exceeded the one Jack shot at Norrington but they would have to have been enormous ones, like Caesar at Brutus. He glared at the admiral for a full minute in silence. "Yer sense of trust in an ally is overrated, Norrington. Musta been that Navy officer trainin'. I hear they specialise in distrustin' those they shoulda trusted." He put a finger to his waggling chin braids. "Or was it trustin' those they shoulda distrusted? Mighta been at that. The English always get things backwards somehow."

"Sparrow, rest assured, I do not trust pirates that I should distrust." Norrington knelt in the water, eyes still on the pirate.

"Yer actions speak loud an' clear, mate. Still, I do think yer hedgin' on an accord. " He rattled the chain, pouted and grabbed hold of the branch, swinging his legs up and hanging like a monkey. "I'm wounded beyond reason." With a flurry of jangling, he managed to perch himself on the branch, booted feet dangling.

"Since you have no reason, that would mean there is no injury." Norrington closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting the water rush through his hair. "That aside, I do believe I evidently did not kill you, and the manacles I would consider as precaution to you not killing me, or commandeering my ship. Not to keep you prisoner."

"That is pure sophistry. Ah well, shoulda known the Navy couldn't keep an accord wifout goin' off at---

Jack seemed to be facing his own arse or some such idiocy. He righted himself and grinned. "Half-cock." The sailpin, neatly inserted in his bootcuff, worked rapidly. Then he glanced at a very pale and silvery Norrington, standing in the waterfall in the most distracting posture. Half cock? No, not a bit of it.

"Sophia meaning wisdom, I understand that it would be a stranger to you." Norrington's voice was muffled underneath the water, then suddenly clear as he stepped out. "However..."

Jack was standing within reach of the whispering surf, Norrington's sword in hand. "I distinctly remember no manacles being a part o' that. And Sophia's a perfectly nice signorina."

Norrington did not flinch, only looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Impressive, Sparrow, quite impressive. However, I do believe you are forgetting one small matter."

Jack's eyes met Norrington's. "Don't be so modest." Oh dear, this wasn't at all what he was supposed to be doing. He heard the click before the muzzle touched his chest. "Yer powder'll be wet."

"Since the pistol was lying on the riverbank, I rather doubt that." The green eyes were as cold as the metal.

"Well, you can shoot me and I can still cut yer throat. Waste o' time, I'd say. Yer very sneaky!"

Bugger, Jack thought. Stalemate. He grinned on reflex and let the sword rest against its owners' pale shoulder.

"Sparrow, I do believe I made a point of not trusting you." Norrington looked down at the blade, then at Sparrow again. "There is one flaw in your plan if you slit my throat. You will miss that hostage you had hoped for. Oh, and of course, you will be dead from a bullet." For one moment, his eyes were darker even, the playful twinkle gone entirely as Norrington hissed, "I have what I wanted. Now decide what you want."

"All I wanted was outta th' irons." The lie slid from Sparrow's lips easily. He bought himself a moment, his glance lazy as he took in all of the admiral. "A bullet an' a downright waste of a lovely beach. An' you wouldn't get to be a hero. Which yer certainly dressed for."

"Sparrow, I obviously manage to hide essential matters from you even without a coat under which to slip them." Norrington shoved the pistol a bit harder against Sparrow, right to the height of his heart. "Fine. No irons for whatever purpose. Now drop the sword."

The pirate drew back, his eyes speculative. "Sneaky an' connivin'. I like that in a pirate. Or rebel." A few bits of the puzzle before his unfortunate interlude in the Locker had just become clear. Norrington was the one who figured out the jar of dirt? Jack shrugged and let the sword drop. "You're all kinds of inventive, admiral."

Jack's plans had changed. Norrington would have to fight to get rid of him. At least until he discovered the whereabouts of a certain undead organ. He disregarded the pistol entirely. "Rebellions need more than water, mate." His lip lifted and glinted off a glimpse of gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "pear-shaped" is a callback to the DMC script "What with the Isla  
> de Muerta going all pear shaped, reclaimed  
> by the sea, and the treasure with it."


	5. Pirate Ceremonials

Jack plunged ahead, up to his boottops in mud with the distinct feeling that he should know where he was. Not that he didn't know where he was---he generally made a point of that---but the specifics were hazy.

Then again, Jack's recall was often hazy, albeit accurate, a curious and confusing fact for himself and anyone else. The anyone else being Norrington made swamp-venturing a bit more interesting. Although the Admiral did not really balk at spiders, particularly very large and hairy ones, he did squeal quite audibly when a snake streaked past them. That, and a return to dryer land, helped to raise Jack's spirits. The meet was in three hours at the town's lone tavern but Jack wasn't saying when to Norrington. Yet.

Norrington sneered at his boots. He was in no rush to reach their goal. A meet with whatever pirate scoundrels called themselves the leaders of a dissolute crowd that knew not what leadership or alliance meant. Yet there he was, ready and desperate enough to try and forge such an alliance. Not for sympathy, but of necessity.

Their crew of rebels was enormous when it came to raising sufficient supplies, but miniscule when it came to fighting the entire East India Trading Company, and then be drawn into struggles with smugglers and thieves of the piratical persuasion as well.

If even Sparrow had sense enough to see the Company as a common enemy, the average pirate should too. He sighed quite audibly and shook his left boot, a clump of sludge narrowly missing Sparrow.

More likely, they would see an opportunity to rid themselves of their former scourge who now was fool enough to follow Sparrow into a trap with seeing eyes. It was idiocy, a foolish risk, and he knew it.

Beside him, the pirate hauled himself up yet another hillock, knee-high into lush vegetation, probably poisonous. The canopy overhead buzzed and squawked raucously. Whoever said that Nature was silent must have been hangin' about a tomb, Jack thought, heading due east. He paused a moment to squint up at the trees, then bolted quite suddenly, to the left, hacking his way to the base of one tree. He stood there, cutlass drooping from one hand and grinned at Norrington. "Wot ya waitin' fer? C'mon," he called over one shoulder as he trotted along the near-invisible path.

"For my common sense to return," Norrington drawled, but followed without hesitation.

"Y'know, mate. Yer not half-bad at all this trudgin' and hackin'." What Jack meant to say was that he was impressed. Norrington was so far over his head as to be effectively imprisoned in his own Locker. And yet, here he was, fighting his way through jungles and snakes, which obviously were not his favourite of God's creatures. And braving a meet with pirates. Jack was, indeed, impressed.

He stomped his way through the last of the trees to the beachhead, a ribbon of sand that led along the coast to festoon the harbour. Its forest of masts was quite impressive.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What a lovely site. Pickin's fer the early birds." He tossed himself under a bower of palms, pulled his hat over his eyes and yanked the flask from his boot. "Take a load off, matey. We're not goin' anywhere until dark."

"I see why we had to sail with the last evening tide, then. Since Petit Goave is such a wonderful location to be." The sand stuck to the slime on Norrington's boots and he pulled them off as he eased himself down in the sand. At least he was not wearing his uniform for this.

Jack held out the flask. "Better n' some, worse than others. Yer a gloomy Gert today. Wot's wrong?"

"Sparrow, if what you say is true - and I admit the likelihood of that is slim - I am about to meet the royalty of pirates," Norrington accepted the bottle and drank, "I rather would think you would be a 'gloomy sort' if you were to face the Admiralty. And not for one of your usually ridiculous endeavours, but to ask them to aid you. Being accompanied by me."

Jack thought about it for a moment and got lost in a pickpocket daydream. "I did, remember? Port Royal. You hanged me." He grinned. "Parley is parley, mate. They'll keep t'the Code. Mostly."

"How very comforting."

"Here. Drink more o' that, willya? The Company is a thorn in everyone's side. Don't make sense t'keep squabbling when a judicious accord can get that bastard's goat."

Norrington raised a brow. "You really are obsessed with goats, Sparrow." He drank another gulp and handed over the flask. "And if I remember said Code correctly, I do believe there is a passage on not dealing with the enemy without intention to stab him in the back later on."

"Ballocks! No such clause an' I should know. I've seen it. The Code, I mean. Great big bloody thing, full o' broadside clippings." Jack helped himself to more rum. "Let's just get to the meet and take it from there, aye?" He drowned a fit of laughter in the flask. "Pirate royalty, indeed!"

"Oxymoron, admittedly," Norrington mumbled under his breath, "but you were the one to describe them thus."

Jack laughed. "Bein' one of the family, I get to disparage them without consequence. God help anyone else who tries it. Besides, they'd think you were callin' 'em morons and beat yer head in. Unless you had rum."

"I thought this was supposed to be some manner of pirate....association, not a family reunion. And I have you. With rum."

"Y'see. No worries at all, mate. Tis a done deal. Although we may run outta liquor before the meet." Jack peered into the flask with a frown.

"Sparrow, you have at least three more bottles in your coat pocket that I gave you, and do not believe that I missed you swiping two more."

Jack could not possibly have looked more innocent if he'd been sporting wings. "I never! B'sides, those two don't count. They're Barbados rotgut."

"I do apologise. I shall write a letter to Beckett and advise him to stock quality rum." Norrington took the bottle from Sparrow's hand while the pirate was busy 'tasting'.

Jack stretched like a large cat and leaned back on his elbows, perfectly at ease."Could you? An' ask the Admiralty to send out a few more ships like that Endeavor. Pretty vessel, that one!"

Norrington rolled his eyes. "Do not touch another one of my ships, Sparrow, or I will hang you, pirate royalty be damned."

Jack hid a grin under his moustache and pulled his hat over his eyes. "Well, there's always those speedy little frog ships about now, too. They're really quite nice designs. The Admiralty should look at 'em."

"Oh, I am quite certain they will happily busy themselves with the French and problems in the channel rather than a megalomaniac Lord in Caribbean backwaters," Norrington sneered, shuffling his boots.

Jack cracked one eye open. "In Martinique or Nouvelle Orleans?"

Norrington answered him with a grim stare into the distance.

Jack was about to quip something about Norrington and hanging but stopped, looking at Norrington's set face, white even in the red sunset. He sat up, wrapping his arm around his knees. "Norrington, if you've no hope of this venture and no anticipation of success, why in hell are you here?"

Norrington raised his head and snatched the bottle from Sparrow's hands, sipping before he answered, eyes fixed on Sparrow. "Because I agreed to fight a battle I have little hope of winning, and yet have good men trusting that I will. Good men ready to sacrifice their lives. Because I won't have that sacrifice be for nothing."

He raised the bottle to his lips but didn't drink. "I know there are ways to fight in which I never fought. I know there are ways to win that I despise." He thought to hide his grimace in the bottle but didn't. "And because I never fought these ways, I am not good at them. But you are, and that is what I do know. That is why I rely on you, Sparrow. I may not like it, I may like it even less than losing, but the truth is that you _can_ help. That you can give this rebellion more of a chance than it has without you. And I would be a poor example of a leader if I once more let my personal pride interfere with what is best for my men, if I set their interests aside for my own vanity."

Norrington frowned at the bottle and held it out to Jack, green eyes narrowed. "To put it in words a pirate might understand: You are the ace up my sleeve, Sparrow, and while I may despise using it, I bloody well will if I must to save those who put their trust in me."

Jack's eyes met his evenly, wide and dark. "Yer incorrigibly noble, y'know that?" His smile was admiring and only teased gently. "I must say yer takin' to pirate tactics like a duck to water. Come to think of it, those Company uniforms do look like ducks. Saw a huge flock of 'em somewhere in Asia. Yellow an' squawkin' and couldn't land very well." He winked.

Norrington snorted. "A duck has to swim, or it drowns," he muttered, then raised his voice, "Of course, you would be the expert on poor landings from parapets and the like."

"Not t'mention landin' in the middle of cave ponds owin' to somethin' you must have done. Not my fault, mate. There were unavoidable interferences, as it were. Not that I'm not grateful. Believe me, mate, I was rootin' fer you." Jack lazy grin belied a worried line between his brows.

"At least when it did not involve your own hanging." Norrington held out his hand expectantly. "The question would be from where you jumped that landing under my sword would make you grateful."

Jack's face was, if anything, expressive. "You wouldn't believe me anyway."

"Sparrow, I rarely believe a word you are saying, and it has yet to stop you from talking."

The black eyes grew blacker. "Davy Jones' Locker, if ya must know. An' it's a right miserable place as anythin' Dante ever dreamed up!"

Norrington left the rum to Sparrow for now. For all he had said, to some extent, he did believe the pirate. Davy Jones played a part, or else his heart would not have. "The bottom of the ocean." His voice was almost a whisper, half a question.

"Not sure if it were the bottom o' anything at all! Dry as a desert." Sparrow actually shuddered. "No wind. An' too many o' meself t'make sense outta."

Norrington half-smiled. "It is nigh impossible to make sense out of one of you." His voice was softer than usual, more hesitant. He did not ask since when, for how long or why, because he knew: In a way, by his own hand. It had been easy enough to steal the heart from Sparrow, easy enough to know the pirate should not have it. Not so easy to look into his face again, not when he no longer had hate or anger to hold on to as justification.

Jack's eyes never left Norrington's face, for all their seeming reverie. So wot did ya do wif it, eh, Admiral? I know you've got it.... Jack schooled his face to a half-smile. "I do apologise if I weren't immediately grateful, sword an' all. I was rather confused at the time."

"Sparrow, as far as I am concerned 'at the time' extends to every single second that I have had the displeasure of knowing you."

"Feelin's mutual, mate." Jack restrained the impulse to stick out his tongue. "I don't suppose it will help matters if I go in there callin' you "Sir" or "Admiral". Any nicknames? Swinestealer?" The sun had dropped down and the lights of the harbour began to wink in blue velvet dark.

Norrington snorted. "Jack," he drawled, "I have no intention of letting you call me any snort of nickname." He sighed. 'Admiral' or 'Norrington' would not help in making anyone less likely to kill him on sight. "Call me James, if you must."

"James. Oh, that's very intimidating! James!" Sparrow choked back a rush of laughter. "No matter. Let's get movin' and, mate?" Norrington found himself face to face with Sparrow-on-tiptoe, one dirty forefinger under his nose. "Don't do anythin' stupid, willya?"

"I already am," Norrington laughed darkly.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once darkness fell, they were in grave danger of being eaten alive by the jungle's insect population. That was incentive enough for Norrington but Jack had his eye on more liquid rewards as he sauntered to the door of the lone tavern. Nothing indicated it was open for business at all, but he rapped and waited, examining his dirty fingernails.

A small port opened. "Password?"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Password? Ummm. Swordfish."

"That was last week's password."

"Well, how was I t'know that being five leagues south o' the Antilles?"

There was a long pause, broken by a steady gurgle, then a belch. "Awright. Try again."

Jack's forehead furrowed. "How 'bout calamari?"

"I like calamari."

"Shall we settle on squid, then?"

The yellow eye peering through the port squinted. "Squid fer bait or squid fer ink?"

Jack snorted. "For ink, of course. Wot kinda seaman uses perfectly good squid fer bait?"

The door opened.

The few candles that burnt inside were fainter than the moon outside, but judging by the stench, Norrington had little desire to see the room in more detail. Perhaps his memory was fogged, but this tavern reeked worse than the depths of Tortuga, and obviously the floor wasn't as regularly cleaned with spilled rum.

Sparrow swayed through the filth, circuiting the close room and tossing himself into a chair at a small table facing the door before flitting off to find his alcoholic grail. Keeping track of him was worse than following a hummingbird and Norrington was brooding when the tankard slopped in front of him.

"Relax. They'll be here."

Norrington raised his brow and then his mug. "I do not believe that the arrival of pirates would give me any reason to relax, Sparrow," he muttered.

Jack had taken his first communion at the bar and took his time with a second large mug, grinning at James, his black eyes darting into every corner. He leaned closer. "This is very second rate, all 'round. Wonder where ev'ryone's got themselves to."

"I would say fifth or sixth rate at best," Norrington drawled as his eyes accustomed to the dark and the shadows began to move.

Jack grimaced. "I don't wanna see the fillies hereabouts." He caught a glimpse of the doorkeep, beckoning from a dark corner. "I believe our dance is up."

"You first. I shall be obliging enough to keep my back free for an opportune knife."

Sparrow glared at him and wobbled towards the corner, which proved to be a small corridor. Once through it, there were a lot of hands grabbing and pulling and smelly bags thrown over their heads.

"C'mon, then. An' don't fuss!" was the encouraging growl from their erstwhile 'host'.

Jack stifled a sneeze. "Fuss? I do think this is unnecessary. And dusty."

A pair of arms more befitting a gorilla than a human being shoved them forward. For a long while, they trudged downward on an uneven path, then were pushed over a doorstep into a blast of humid night air. Jack sniffed, wedging his chin down to his chest. He stumbled into James, recognising the faint scent of verbena. "Opportune moment," he hissed.

"To vomit?" Norrington rumbled. Other than that he was silent. He focused on the wind on his hands, the wind that blew from the northern coast, from whence they'd come. The wind that now blew exactly towards him. They were going back. He smirked underneath the linen sack.

"Shaddup." One of their 'escorts' prodded him with a pistol a few more hundred feet into deep cool, eddying around them in contrast to the jungle heat. By the time the bags were whisked off their heads, both knew themselves to be in a cave.

Jack blinked like a owl. "Thank you." He gazed at the crowd around him blandly: Tom Tindall, Zephrim Comstock and Sweet Willy Teasdale. All 4th rate freebooters with their crews. James could feel Jack's spine straighten as he preened. He was a pirate lord. They were minions.

Norrington fixed each one of them for a moment and reminded himself he wasn't here to fight. "Ahoy."

The asssembly parted towards the dank walls and Oud Mac Taylor stumped his way forward by lanternlight, his yellow eye fixed on Sparrow. "So tell me, Jackieboy, how's yer da?"

The pirate smirked. "Still holed up in th' East wif yer sister, last I heard. Where's the rest o' the gang, Mac? Seems t'me the West Indies is sufferin' a distinct lack o' pirates."

Norrington snorted.

Taylor stomped to a chair and pulled another close while reaching for a stool. Jack leaned forward helpfully, got the stool tangled with Mac's wooden leg and they did a bit of a dance to and fro before settling on their respective backsides, not entirely by choice. Mac growled and started to reach for a pistol when Jack held up one hand. "Parley, remember?"

Taylor echoed Norrington's snort. "Aye. Parley, indeed. And why would Teague's brat be wanderin' round with the Ex-great pirate hunter?"

Jack smiled oh-so-sweetly and handed Taylor back his knife, gun, purse and three spare buttons, all neatly lifted during the chair scuffle. "Matey, it don't do to besmirch yer own student. Either I'm gettin' better or you're gettin' soft!"

Taylor cuffed him with a terrifying grin. "Awright, awright, Jackie. Yer definitely gettin' better. Any more luck finding that black ship you stole? Or are you still prowlin' the docks fer pockets?"

Jack stuck out his tongue.

"B'sides," Taylor stretched his three sinewy limbs. "Heard you was dead."

Jack beamed. "Isn't that getting old yet?"

Norrington cleared his throat. "I do believe his lack of luck with ships would be why he is wandering around with me. Because he has something to gain. As do you."

Taylor's one eye regarded him sharply. "Is he always this unfriendly?"

Jack nodded gravely. "Got hisself scared by a buccaneer in his cradle. Still, he's a bit of a stick but a good sort."

"You do realise that I can hear you."

Both turned to him and grinned. Jack stifled a chuckle. "See wot I mean?" He was on familiar turf now. "Listen Mac, we've got a problem on our hands and it behooves us all, as behoovin' will, to join our forces 'gainst the East India Pilfering Company. Behoovin' being the first invitation, as it were."

"And wot's to say yer Pirate Hunter here won't go running back to Beckett an' his toadies?

"The price on my head being larger than that on all of yours combined would say that, I imagine," Norrington interjected and took a step forward, face set, green eyes glinting. "And that he would rather reward you for any information on me than the other way around. Aside from the fact that I would rather see Beckett shot than tell him a single word, I am taking a greater risk than you."

Taylor leaned forward, his seamed face intent. "Honest, too. And very eloquent. I'm surprised yer letting him talk, Sparrow. He's upstagin' you." His low chuckle was appropriately ghastly. "So wot do you want from us? Safe quarter? T'join a crew and head off to the Carolinas?"

Again, Norrington snorted. "I do not need you to _do_ anything at all. Whether you take your feet between your hands and run, or if you choose to fight, is your choice. The only thing I want is for you to not interfere with my fight. If you attack and plunder a ship, let it be the Company's. I have no will nor need to fight you now, but I will if I must. Those fights will cost us both and strengthen the Company even further. I call that foolish, and all I want is that you are not foolish."

He half-smiled and leaned closer. "Of course, I suppose there could be certain... advantages to an alliance rather than only a cease-fire."

Taylor smiled right back at him. "Oh aye, that would be very nice fer you, wouldn't it?" He turned to Sparrow, who was pouting mightily about being upstaged and kicked him in the shin. "Don't sulk, Jackie. Is wot he's sayin' true? You brought him here."

"Did not. He made me do it."

"Why yes, Sparrow, I forgot, I threatened to withhold the rum." Norrington rolled his eyes and was surprised to find Taylor mirror the gesture.

"You gagged me!"

Taylor's second, a bowlegged little man with a sleepy smile, chuckled. "Bout time someone did!"

Norrington silenced Sparrow's outraged sputter. "Nice for me perhaps, but less so than for you. I have little use for the Company's valuables. But it is to my advantage if they lose them."

Taylor registered surprise with another ghoulish grin. "You talkin' booty?"

Norrington smirked and leaned against the table. "I am talking cargo. A rebellion is an expensive endeavour to uphold, for certain, but with the capability to capture more of their ships, I would imagine there might be silks or other items useless in warfare."

At this juncture, Sparrow grinned and melted into the small crowd, settling next to the nearest full bottle. He let Norrington handle the negotiations with admiration. "Isn't that just wunnerful? All those years in the Navy and he can haggle like an Arab." His companion snored.

Taylor winked at Norrington. "So, what d'ya want? Arms an' cash, I'd warrant. Say 30 percent?"

"30 percent for you sounds acceptable."

"Blast and damn ya, man! I meant 30 percent fer you."

"Such a shame. I certainly did not."

Somewhere amid barbs and stings, outrageous fortune and downright nasty barter, the interesting figure of 65% was duly agreed upon. Taylor stumped to his one foot, hand extended. "We have an accord?"

"An full use o' the Grapevine." Jack's dark face appeared at Norrington's shoulder like an evil imp.

Taylor stiffened. "Half rations there, boy!"

Jack stood his ground, smiling. "An' wot good would that be to anyone but a Tortuga pimp? Full use and I want a word wif Silky."

The cave went silent, then a low mutter buzzed like a hive disturbed. Taylor's face was still. "Silky ain't been 'round fer a long time, Jackie," he said slowly.

The golden grin widened. "When ya hear from him."

For a moment, everyone could taste the tension, throbbing like Jones' undead heart. Finally, Taylor nodded with a grunt.

Jack's hands fluttered towards Norrington. "He's the commander. Make yer accord wif him."

Norrington raised a brow. "Why, thank you, Sparrow," he drawled, deliberately sarcastic. He held out his hand.

Mac's clasp was brief but crushing. The cave lapsed into tavern and evidently, word had reached the real tavern that negotiations were at an end and entertainment was needed, for several barmaids hefted trays with the ease of longshoreman. Mac relaxed into his chair. "Hey Jackie, once Beckett's out of business, y'ever think ye'll honour that debt?"

"Considering his inability to think, you are demanding a lot of the man," Norrington drawled.

"Oh, he thinks awright. Too much thinkin'. " Mac laughed. "That's wot always gets him into trouble, our Jackie."

"If what Sparrow is doing is considered too much thinking, it is little wonder..."Norrington was cut off by a loud clatter in the back.

Cupid's arrow had reached into the dim cave and struck Willy Teasdale squarely in the left buttock. At least, that's how Jack would later start the story. The reality was that one behemoth barmaid had struck a deal with Comstock's bo'sun and was perching her bulk on his lap, when Teasdale chose to pinch her bottom. He mistook bottoms.

This, of course, carried great kinetic energy throughout the cave in a matter of seconds. Jack had been about to reply to all these slurs on his character and stopped, his mouth half open. Mac didn't blink his one eye. "Think perhaps you lads might want to leave now." His smile stretched. "You know the way out, Jackie."

Norrington ducked a chair and evaded a flying bottle. Then he had Sparrow by the collar. "Why exactly are pirates incapable of drinking without throwing?" He shouted over the ruckus.

"It's an unwritten law. Otherwise, they nail yer head to the table. C'mon." Jack made a mental note to send Mac a whole hill of those nasty African termites. "This way." He darted further down into the darkness of the cave until the light spilled like a ribbon and the noise was muffled. Suddenly, he dove to the right, grabbing Norrington's coat. "Stay close an' keep yer head down."

"Is that a ceremonial requirement for pirate accords?" Norrington panted.

Jack reached toward the darkness, feeling the draught on his fingers and slipped into a crevice barely large enough for a child, much less an adult. For a moment, it was breathstealing, a close sarcophagus of blackness with no in or out, then he pulled Norrington through into the night air.

They were but a few hundred yards from the narrow cove where the boat was moored.

Norrington raised an eyebrow. "And pray tell why exactly I had to cross the marsh only to walk back with a sack of worse odor than even you if you knew the location so precisely?"

"That is pirate ceremonials for ya. Make no sense at all." Jack splashed towards the lines and hauled them in. "Much as I enjoy a night wif me mates, I am a slave to duty."

"That, and you finished all their rum," Norrington hauled the anchor chain up into their boat. "Of course, I do appreciate that you are making time to properly explain exactly what you said in there." He smirked.

"Wot I said? You did all the talkin', matey. An' I must admit to being impressed. Yer an admirable admiral. So good t'know yer time in Tortuga was well-used."

He busied himself with cracking the seal on a bottle fished out of his endless pockets.

"Sparrow, I did not need Tortuga to know when I am being distracted." Norrington hoisted the mainsail, then jumped offboard to shove the boat from its sandy mooring place. "You set your own conditions for that accord. What were they?"

Jack grabbed an oar. "We're not gonna get very far without two of these, Jamie," he warned. He heaved a great sigh. "Wot do you wanna know?"

"About the two things you mentioned that made Mac stall his drinking for all of two seconds. The Grapevine and Silky."

"The Grapevine is pirate infermation!"

"And I hope Silky is not your favourite wench."

Jack drew in his oar and sat sulking like a pirate toad. "Are we getting back to the ship or wot?"

He groused, making comments about the weather, the night air, pirates, commodore, the Navy, the perilous state of the economy to no response. "Silky's the best informant in the West Indies. Knows everyone and everything." He paused and, seeing no respite, continued. "If we can get hold of him, we'll have communication lines right inta Port Royal under his Midgetship's fine nose."

Norrington raised his brow. "I suppose that will do for here and now." He dropped his oar into the water.

Jack took on the monumental task of rowing and drinking simultaneously in silence all the way back to the ship. He had neglected to mention, of course, that James Norrington was well-acquainted with 'Silky'.


	6. A Taste of Rebellion

Barbados was quite enough like Tortuga to remind Norrington that pirates were debauching themselves everywhere in the New World and make Jack feel quite at home. Since their pirate-recruiting adventure, Jack had surprised his captor with silence and consumed alarming amounts of rum, which was precisely what he was doing at their makeshift tavern table. He swilled down his second tankard, eyes darting into every shadowed corner. Naval discipline of a sort held amongst Norrington's ragtag forces, with additional stragglers picked up at every port. Jack grimaced through the glass bottom of his mug, hoping James would consider another round. "If ya'd let me mingle, I might find out sumthin' useful, mate."

"Such as the price on my head?" Norrington hissed. He jerked his head. "These are the sailors from the Aurelia. And I know you already noticed them well before I did." His mug scratched on the table as he pushed it towards Sparrow. "Stop flirting with the wench." 

Sparrow twinkled at him. "It's customary in seaports, luv. Besides, those gels know ev'rythin." Before Norrington could stop him, Jack was up, mug in hand and arm around said wench's three-yard waist. He could feel Norrington's glare through the back of his head.

Norrington grumbled into another mug. The Aurelia certainly would be easier to take while her sailors were spread in the taverns, not when they had returned shipboard. Likely, the entire point of Sparrow's plan was to carouse in a tavern rather than comandeer one of the Company's ships. Certainly, that plan seemed succesful. He grudgingly paid for another mug and glared across the room. 

Two dozen of Norrington's men were spread about in the tavern, hand-selected by Sparrow for what Norrington was certain was their shadiness. Just how could he ever have thought it made sense that Sparrow's plans always were this ridiculous, always worked, and therefore this had to work as well. Sparrow logic. He snorted and tossed back most of the contents of his mug.

Jack felt at a disadvantage without his glorious mop, currently hidden in a makeshift turban. He'd taken the further precautions of rubbing off all his kohl and removing an ingenious device from his mouth, eliminating three gold teeth at once, all before they'd even set foot on the doorstep. He teased and charmed his raddled quarry, even with a regrettable tendency to lisp, due to the absence of his gilded grin. On the way back to the table, he helped himself to a few pockets' contents and slurped at a new mug, courtesy of the barkeeps' vain wife. "Cap'n of the Aurelia has got terrible fearth. Requires clean theeths ev'ryday."

"Why yes, Sparrow, it is rather obvious that you consider anything involving clean as terrible."

The dark eyes were old without the paint, but as puckish as ever. "He's got more n' half his crew shut up shipboard. The offithers , o' course, are free to roam the docks. We gotta empty that thip, mate."

"How ingenious," Norrington drawled, "a true Capth'n Tharrow plan."

"Thut up!" Jack scowled. "How fast can you lot take control if there's only th' watch?" Jack avoided the word 'officers' with a glare. "Me an' yer little friends here, we're gonna join the Aurelia's crew. Betty yonder says they just took on a score o' new men and still need more. Oh, and you'll be interethted to know that the East India mailship is berthed down there, too." 

"Already? Beckett must be desperate for the Admiralty's help." Norrington smiled crookedly. A nod towards his men and one by one, they joined the Aurelia's crew. He threw Sparrow a small pouch clinking with coins. "Buy them a round. That will make them more inclined to listen to your lisp." 

Jack swore he could hear the ocean in his mouth's gaping caverns. "Bugger off! I thuthpect--thit! Take a while. You'll know." Mayhem beckoned and Jack responded like a moth to flame, despite rankling, unavenged insults. He sauntered to his new crewmen, bought the promised round with other coins from other pockets and they all melted away as the ship's bell called them to their new berth. Just before they scattered like rats in a hold, Jack's voice, like a lisping nemesis, was close to Norrington's ear. "Thill rootin' fer you, mate."

"I want the change back," Norrington drawled.

The march to the Aurelia took them down the dock and past a small dyeworks, where Jack made a tiny detour. He returned to the line and they boarded the ship, waiting just long enough to get settled belowdecks. At light's out, the rustling began until Jack finished daubing them all with a particularly lurid red-puple pot of dye with a whitewash brush. He gave his own nose a final splotch, hid the pot behind a pile of rags along the bulwark, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Now, let's try t'do sumpthin' stupid."

From the shadows on the dock, Norrington watched the Aurelia light up like a battlefield, lamps flaring behind the portholes. Voices carried across the waves. Was that what Sparrow called taking a ship quietly? 

Jack cut through the pandemonium, pausing for the occasional encouraging shout of "PLAGUE SHIP" as he made his way to the captain's quarters. It was no easy task to climb down through the casements and he'd almost had a bit of unpleasantness what with the rope getting itself around his ankle, but he managed to corner the poor captain in his nightshirt and cap. 'He still wears a cap! The Company ain't much up on fashion, are they?' he thought, wielding a belaying pin as a sabre. "Don't you see 'um? Spots! Orange an' yeller spots afore yer eyes! We're doomed!" He was kind enough to help the Captain out of the casement, where he dropped like a stone and had to be rescued by other plague-panicked officers in a jolly boat who didn't dare not retrieve their fleeing leader. It was, by Jack's account, a rout.

The small barge was moored only a few yards away from the mailship, freshly stocked and left to itself when the watch ended. The sole watchman had been drunk from the barge's contents and now lay snoring in a heap, his headache worsened by the lump on the back of his head. 

The smell of sulphur was heavy and Norrington only hoped his nose would not go ablaze along with the thin trail of gunpowder. He grimaced as he lit the fuse, then jumped into the water. Even underwater, the eruption thrummed.. The firelight danced on the surface. Too bright. He dove and reemerged on the other side of the footbridge, watching from the shadow as the mailship's crew ran to quench the fire or steer the small boat away before the flames took their own ship.

Jack was at one of those junctures in a sword fight that long for an extra second. The pilot had objected to being replaced by one of the 'plague victims' which had necessitated a bit of violence. Just when Jack's head was dangerously close to being squished under a cannon, James gave him that extra second. He slithered sideways and stopped, staring at the flames. The pilot stared too, met Jack's eyes and they both looked again at the flaming docks before Jack helped him overboard. "Jonesy? You got th' wheel?" He didn't wait for an answer: all around him, Norrington's men were forcing their way aboard and he reckoned he could be spared for a little while. 

"I may regret this, but time and tide." Jack dove from the rail.

Norrington climbed quickly, the anchor's chain cold between his hands. All eyes were on the ship's stern, where the flames' reflection danced in the windows. He pulled himself aboard, and rushed into the captain's cabin.

When Sparrow slipped through one of the windows, he was staring into Norrington's pistol once more. "Oh, ith you." 

Jack put out his tongue, his golden mouth once more intact: it was embarrassing to yell orders with such an obvious impediment. "You always make fun o' the afflicted? Yer men are aboard the Aurelia. Oho, wot have we got here." It was really astounding how fast the pirate could rifle through a desk. "Don't think these are love letters. This one's to the Admiralty." His grin flickered, sharklike. "Let's see wot the little bugger's been sayin' 'bout you."

Norrington grimaced. "By all means, if you lack the mental capacity to find sufficient insults by yourself."

Sparrow found a sailpin in the depths of one pocket and heated it over the lamp's flame. "Sit down, Commodore. You got a report t'write. Ahhh....we're in luck." He ran the hot needle through the seal. "He used a blank page t'fold it. Let's see... oooh, yer a 'traitorous ingrate who has roused the Royal Navy to general mutiny. You bad boy!"

Norrington grimaced. Hastily, he scrawled line after line. Strange, how easily it suddenly was with shouts and the clash of waves rather than the noise of a thumping heart. Outside, the flames died down. The ink was barely sanded and dried when he folded the paper and handed it over to Sparrow.

Jack refolded it in its protective cover, reheated the needle and melted the back of the seal until it resealed handily, and looked, even to James' eyes, untouched. He glanced at the original, scanning the words 'pirates' and 'Singapore' and stuffed it in his pocket for later perusal. At that moment, his thumb informed him that it was not immune to red hot metal. "OUCH! Let's get back to the Aurelia. OW! " He sucked on it as he balanced on the casement sill. "You comin'?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Beckett paused in the midst of methodically reducing his pile of letters and reports, dwarfed by the expanse of his burlwood desk. It was a terrible bore that Norrington had escaped, taking the scant Navy left in Port Royal.

His Lordship permitted himself a smug smile. He had chosen a particularly swift little sloop to carry his reports to London along with two other, equally non-descript but fast ships off to bring his semi-private Navy across the Atlantic from Bombay. He had taken the liberty of commandeering a few Navy ships in the East as was heartily glad they had not been around to see Norrington's not-so-witless display of nobility.

His nose moved in a stealthy sniff. Honestly, the smell of the dock seemed to get more rank every day. Armed with a fine handkerchief, he resumed his morning duties.

His subaltern, a man of intrepid dishonesty and fanatical devotion to the Company, bustled in with the latest reports, carefully laid them on the far corner of the desk and disappeared to fetch his Lordship's tea. His Lordship was very particular about its temperature and strength.

The latest news from Barbados was pleasant enough: Accounts were in the black, most of the local smugglers had abandoned English ports and gold was pouring in by the shipload. The only thorn in his side was this shabby little rebellion.

He sniffed again as the letter opener sliced into his latest pet report and the subaltern stumbled in the doorway, rattling the silver service as his Lordship's face drained of colour.

The Aurelia was his main tariff ship. Not so beautiful or deadly as the Endeavor or his newest toy, the Vulture, but her bulk was no less precious than their guns. His jaw clenched. "Find Mercer. Now."

There was a razor's edge to his voice as he scanned the report. All lost, some 7 months of taxes from more than a dozen ports and to what? Plague? That did not ring true to Beckett's wary instincts at all. The report spoke of new crewmen bringing it aboard...

He sat up very straight, all 5 and a bit of him.

"Norrington!" he hissed. His tea was much too hot and scorched his tongue just as he became aware that the faint stench he'd assumed to be the docks seemed to increase without benefit of an open window. He moved his chair, sniffing like an overactive terrier.

Without a word, he stalked to the door and locked it, then returned to pull the chamberpot from the kneehole of his desk, pulling off the cover.

He jumped back, handkerchief at his mouth as his gorge rose. The reek filled the room and he poked at the dripping sack with the poker. It moved, opened and seemed to wander in the pot, crawling with maggots.

Mercer opened the door to a faint, soprano squeak.

"Milord?"

It wasn't often he saw his diminutive master so very white. "Get rid of --of--- _that_!"

Mercer took the entire chamber pot and looked inside without reaction. He poked with a spare quill and hooked a golden chain and watch, dripping slime onto the stinking mess.

From under his fine linen, Beckett cursed. "Damn Norrington! Get rid of it. Tell no one. We'll deal with Jones when we must." He squared his small shoulders, eyes narrowed. "Tell me the mailship got off safely."

Mercer closed the chamber pot and let the entire thing fall out the casement. "I will make sure of that personally, sir."

"And Mercer?"

"Yes, milord?

"Leave the casement open."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was one aspect fundamentally wrong with Sparrow's way of 'sneaking': It might have been virtually noiseless, a shadow darting between shadows, but when someone was next to the pirate, like Norrington was now, it was too ridiculous to bite back laughter.

Sparrow walked on the very tips of his toes, much like a ballet dancer, his upper body bouncing back and forth. Whenever Norrington huffed out a breath, the pirate's eyes darted back, staring disapprovingly and black as the night - and as the tar stuck underneath the fingernail of the finger that wagged chastisingly before his lips.

Jack avoided a rotting plank, sidestepped a pile of debris and thumped close to Norrington's shoulder as he pulled a tarbucket off his boot. "SHHHH!"

Norrington bit his lips and shoved Sparrow back upright when he stumbled over yet another bucket.

"Why doncha bang on a pot lid!" Jack groused sotto voce.

The streets of Andover were as quiet as an unimportant fishing islet could be. Indeed, the place was so small the East India Trading Company had never established a permanent presence, only a storage supply.

"I shall wait until later to bang you over the head," Norrington rumbled. His eyes darted from the pirate to the street and suddenly he grabbed Sparrow by his coat and shoved him into a shadowed corner, pressing him against the wall, palm over his mouth. He felt the dampness of Jack's breath against his skin, his heartbeat against his own chest and the tension of muscles ready for battle.

Jack grinned against it, inhaling lemon verbena, a touch of sweat and something that was indefinably James, pressed so close against him. It was pleasant enough for him to tuck the scent into his memory for later examination.

An East India Company officer, his yellow waistcoat unmistakeable in the gloom, lounged over the remains of his last bottle, stalking past them.

Norrington eased away, then jerked back into the shadows when a marine, far more sober and attentive, arrived. He grabbed Sparrow by the collar and yanked him through a hole in the wooden planks of the wall.

They were greeted by a grunt.

Face to face with a prize hog was quite a normal ending to a Tortuga Saturday night. It wasn't the way to plunder among a ragtag force that counted perhaps twenty real pirates in its number. Jack picked his way through the slop with the expression of a fine lady avoiding her lapdog's messes.

Norrington followed with a sneer. Outside, the marines started to chatter.

"Norrington, wot exactly are we attemptin' t'do here?

"Avoiding detection, insipid fool, in case you were too busy keeping your balance to notice that second guard," Norrington hissed. "And pray tell, what exactly is so interesting about that goat?"

"Same thing that's got you oglin' the swine, luv." Jack squinted at the dock. "There's too many of 'em."

The goat baahed and Sparrow jerked around. Norrington grinned. "I do believe we require a distraction manoeuvre." He nodded towards the animals.

Jack grinned at him. "Nice to see you know yer way around a barn." He tiptoed to the small gate and nudged it open with one foot.

The animals looked up, disinterested to leave their comfortable straw and full troughs. Norrington cussed.

Jack lifted the commodious skirts of his coat and flapped them, squawking.

The result was immediate and raucous: chickens fluttered by in a state of feathered frenzy, goats charged through the open gate, followed by pigs, sheep and finally, one lone, lazy cow. In the next stall but one, a bull watched her amble with huffing snorts.

"Let Nature take its course, eh?" Jack hunched next to Norrington, panting.

The cursing outside was drowned out by grunting, baahing, squawking, and a lone moo. Norrington laughed softly. "So that is how you plot courses." He peered outside. "I think they are busy running around like chickens. Or after chickens." 

Jack moved towards the bull's stall and eased the door ajar. The bull, no doubt grateful for such understanding of his amorous dilemma, bolted after the cow, amid shouts and an infinite chorus of clucking. "No, mate. That's how I plot a course." His grin caught the light in a streak of gilded mischief.

"Most impressive. Now, since the lifestock is taken care of, I suggest we plot a course to the storage tower." Norrington slipped through the crack in the wall.

Jack followed, his face working itself into a variety of grimaces as he made Norrington acutely aware of his feelings about their shared venture.

They crept across the street towards the storage tower. Norrington slammed the barrel of his pistol over the single guard's head and watched him drop. Then he fired his pistol, the shot echoing over the water.

Jack sidestepped chickens and drunken marines, lifted the key from the unconscious gatekeeps pocket and bounded up the steps. Their 20 pirates attacked the lower stores of munitions and salt beef with remarkable aplomb, lugging it all out and into their assorted small crafts with machine precision. Jack started to rifle through the upper office's contents with less discipline, tossing papers and penwipes willynilly.

Norrington snorted. "I do believe you are a part of this not so much because I am 'rather the enemy of the enemy than the enemy', but you merely creating havoc wherever you go, and you enjoy that I seem to be aiding and abetting you."

He stepped over a pile of papers and snatched the small pile of letters carrying the Company seal.

Jack shoved another stack of similarly-stamped letters into his pocket and used that versatile sail needle to jimmy open the desk drawer. "Manifests. Recent ones."

Suddenly, his black eyes danced with the unholy lights of hell. "I got an idea, matey!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Norrington looked up from the pile of papers and eyed the wet ink doubtfully. "This will never work."

"Just change the numbers there, where I erased 'em. Don't dawdle, luv. The bullrun down there won't last forever. " Jack proved to have hitherto unsuspected talents as a chemist and had concocted a mixture of chicken dung, rum and horse piss that eradicated the ink very nicely. All that remained was for Norrington to fill in woeful digits. "That should muck up his Lordship's accounts a bit!"

Norrington scrawled quickly, then sprinkled sand across the ink. Forging manifestos. Effective, perhaps, but impossibly Sparrow. He shoved them back into the drawer. 

It only took a few moments for them to rejoin the stampede, racing the tide of goats and chickens towards their boats. Jack caught hold of Norrington's sleeve and shoved a grenade into his hand. "A bit more cover? Since yer so good wif explosives."

"Don't tempt me to shove it into your shirt, Sparrow." Norrington lit and threw it behind them, running faster until he heard the explosion. Breathless, they arrived at the small cove. He was about to grab a crate and help load it when he noticed a pair of eyes watching from the rocky shore, then another, and yet another, until well over a dozen people were assembled, watching silently.

Jack noticed them, too, frozen mid-haul, his eyes enormous. The crate wobbled in his grip and a young fisherman rushed to help him load it. Jack's eyes darted to Norrington, then back and he suddenly leaped atop a pile of boxes, his voice low and insistent. "Thankee lad, we need all the help we can get. All o' you, hear me! We've a right spot of trouble gettin' one up on the Comp'ny. Listen! Here---" His fingers waved like a snakecharmer's. "---we have Admiral James Norrington, whom you know has laboured long t'keep you all safe. An' wot was his reward for that devotion? A rope and a court o' cats by order of them pestilent thieves at the Comp'ny. Come now! How many o' you have lost yer cargos, yer hard-earned wages? Seen yer kiddies go t'bed hungry while Beckett dines off yer backs in Port Royal? This man's willin' to make it good. Give him yer strength and he'll give you back yer God-given rights as Englishmen. Wot are you waitin' fer? Angels?"

"Sparrow, shut up and run!"

The crowd buzzed, inching forward. There was a soft murmur, then a hesitant cheer. Emboldened, Jack coaxed them towards him like a mountebank selling potions. "Is this man who'd give his life fer you gonna have to load his own ship? Huzzah! Huzzah fer Norrington!" His voice had risen to a tone the Admiral knew---the sound of a captain's voice, able to pierce the raging of a gale wind. There was a brief cheer, then many extra hands helping them load.

It wasn't, perhaps, the setting Norrington may have dreamed for his apotheosis, but Jack reckoned the occasional moo or grunt didn't spoil it too much.


	7. Ladies and Gentlemen

"I am quite aware that you believe you know better, but I am also quite certain that you would make better speed turned two points further leeward," Groves mumbled, wearily tugging a the wheel, expecting it to have as much effect as it usually had: None. This time, however, the Pearl gave, if only with a little mocking shimmy. "Say all you want, I am right."

The spray that shot over the siderails soaked him and the wind was quite ready to tear him overboard, but for all the speed the Pearl made, the Dutchman was still close behind them. Closer now, since the Pearl had decided to take his advice so late. Stupid ship. He grinned.

Behind them, Jones was cursing the air blue, bellowing orders, then rescinding them as fast as his prey tacked. "Ya scurvy bitch, I'm gonna blow a hole in ya so big they can float the Antilles through ya!" he groused, shoving the Hammer-head away from the wheel and choking back a laugh when he collided into Swordfish, whose nose got tangled in the rigging. Again.

Far below him, in the depths of the hold, the Dutchman herself was laughing. He didn't hear her; he wasn't listening to anything but the emptiness inside his chest.

She followed the Pearl's bounding lead, ignoring which way wheel or wind turned.

Perhaps a mile away, the Pearl shimmied. Groves sighed. He supposed the Navy could use a ship like her, apparently quite able to sail itself without the crew of at least few dozen it would have needed. A ship that had left him, inbtead as sole crewman, time to discover a few barrels of drinking water as well as some hardtack and salted fish, admidst a lot more barrels of rum. If only she wasn't so insubordinate.

Had Captain Jones been in possession of his more human traits, he might have noticed the Dutchman's reluctance to follow him. Laws of physics aside, something had happened to her not so very long ago---perhaps she had had her fill of Jones' fishbrained ego. Perhaps she was tired of being tatty and covered in barnacles. Perhaps she was stretching her sealegs and found his compass lacking. Whatever it was, Jones wasn't noticing. He ordered full speed and had the guns run out as they came close on the Pearl's stern.

Groves looked back, truly worried for the first time since he had resigned himself to the Pearl's antics. "Far be it from me to criticise you, but I would suggest speeding up. Now."

He hadn't expected a ship to blow a raspberry. Her black sails bellied and she positively laughed her way for the third time around a tiny islet.

"You evil slattern! Gie 'er a taste o' the triple guns." Jones snarled. The crew huffed and pulled and finally got the great gunport open, when the cannon itself turned a somersault. The gunner, most fortunately, had not yet touched the fuse, being of sounder mind than his tentacled captain.

Heaving curses, they turned the cannons around, and this time, warily, lit the fuse. There was quite a satisfying boom, but the cannonballs just dropped into the water before the Dutchman's bow, no force propelling them towards the Pearl.

The Pearl heaved further into the wind, her wake breaking across a wave and splashing the Dutchman's gunports, soaking the gunners. Together, the two ships' sounds were like a rumbled laugh.

Jones screamed defiance, condemned the gunners to another century of servitude and handed over the wheel, his burr thickening with every insult as he stomped towards the hatch.

That knothole had either been in the deck all along and somehow was never noticed or plugged. Or it wasn't. No one was quite sure. Jones' pegleg wedged into it, the plank flew up and smacked him mid-tentacles.

After that, it really didn't matter how many years he added to sentences or how much he cursed. The crew erupted into icthyus laughter and his only real option was to demand repairs and retire to his cabin. Meanwhile, his ship sped on towards the Pearl, circled her once, then shimmied and heaved to, all without a bit of help from the crew.

Jones spent ten minutes in a full-fledged, tentacle-spasming tantrum before reappearing on deck to order a dive. Before disappearing beneath the waves, the Dutchman's starboard bow lamps blazed in a wink.

Groves was still clinging to the wheel and gulped. "Now, I realise you may have as much luck as your Captain, winking fortune and all, but even that is bound to run out. So...move? Please?" He tugged at the wheel.

The Pearl was obviously of the same mind and graciously allowed him to lead her in the dance.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Beckett sighed. The constant reports of thefts and sabotage courtesy of Norrington's rebellion had subsided, coinciding with a strange lack of news entirely. The calm before the storm, a sailor would say, but Lord Beckett had scant respect for seamen or their superstitions. He was a businessman, and a calm meant time for new business strategies.

The teapot on his desk was still steaming and he filled his cup. The Kingston Herald was lying under the neat pile of letters. Many of his associates in London snorted derisively at his affinity for broadsides. They might read them, but Beckett knew that broadsides kept at the pulse of daily business. Not there was much of a pulse in these dastardly Caribbean backwaters. He quirked his lip and flipped open the parchment.

"RAID ON PORT TOWN" the Herald screamed at him in splotched, lurid print. "On the 21st of June, the town of Andover was attacked by the rebel forces under command of James Norrington. A stampede of animals destroyed the dock and a broodcow followed by her amorous bull charged into the Silent Sister tavern, creating much Grievous Havoc. There were no casualties."

Beckett frowned at the broadside and wondered if the author had enough sense to mean the band of rebels by stampede of animals, or if Norrington really was that desperate. Then he recalled the report from Andover, that the life stock had been stolen but heroically retrieved by Company troops, and frowned. So Norrington had not been after the life stock, and that it had been retrieved was not any achievement

A few paragraphs down---Beckett had to resort to his spectacles, the print was so impossibly small and spotty---there was another report of a raid of a small settlement near Nassau in which a full cargo of Navy rum was plundered from the Maritime Star. Said ship had been disabled by a clever contrivance of chain that rendered her rudder useless.

"It must be said that insomuch as all Citizens must deplore these attacks, credit must by given for the brazen and clever Manner in which the rebels have pursued their Aims. Whether Nefarious or Not, Our Correspondant cannot help but express some admiration."

Admiration! Beckett fought the urge to crumple the paper and toss it into a corner. He rose to his feet called for his valet. "All broadsides that can be found in Port Royal. Now." His voice was low but tense, and when the valet returned, it took all his composure to not rip them from his hands. "Out," he hissed, already staring at the title of the Port Royal Towncrier.

"REBEL NAVY INCREASES ITS RUM SUPPLIES" the author declared, gleefully continuing to describe "routs worthy of the best days of Morgan and Bartholomew all throughout local waters." He gloated in detail over the stampede at Andover and went into ecstatic delight over the report of yet another East India Trading Company tariff collector sent back "liberally decorated with feathers and olive oil. "Certainly, these Doughty Englishmen have a sense of Humour and Fairplay, for the Oil was not heated, nor was tar threatened. The Gentleman in Question was mum regarding the Pink Silken Bloomers."

For a long moment, Beckett stared at the print, his mouth open, looking very much like a stuffed dressmaker's dummy. Rudders disabled, grand theft rum?

"Sparrow!" he hissed through his teeth.

The rebellion of Norrington's was becoming a problem for the Company. In fact, the problem was now personal.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sail ho!" Three masts on the horizon, a frigate with white sails prowing her way through the waves. The Union Jack flew on her, and above it, mockingly, the East India Trading Company's blue-white.

"Make for her starboard side," Norrington barked at the helmsman, lowering his telescope. "Signal the Aurelia and the Erin to approach from her larboard side."

The crew churned, spoiling for a release of the Isla de Muerta's dark oppression. "Gunnery crews, at the ready!"

Lt. Connor, who'd proved to be invaluable in such endeavors, immediately had the gun crews hustling and Jenkins stood at the stern, flags waving the signals to the Aurelia and Erin. His Navy coat was topped with a rakish hat Jack found during one of their raids.

They approached quickly, wind on their quarters. The frigate, the Cormorant, was still moving sluggishly towards them, wind abeam, then jybed to escape the Defiant's approach. That escape route crossed the Aurelia's and the Erin's path, and the first shots boomed.

The crews of all three rebel ships were seasoned and it had ceased to surprise Norrington that his gunners could include more than one pirate. Shoulder to shoulder, sweating in the confines of the gundeck, there was precious little to identify which man had been a pirate and which was a Navyman. All worked together like a well-oiled machine and the Cormorant was quickly trapped in their triangle.

Shots were echoing over the waves and it did not take long for them to disable the greater part of the Cormorant's cannons. "Ready yourself to be boarded!" Norrington yelled across the water, mere seconds before hooks and planks flew onto the Company ship's rails and the Defiant's boarding crew swarmed over them, Norrington himself alongside.

Once on deck, the momentum carried them just until they were face to face with the crew of the Cormorant. And they stopped. The silence was what Connor would describe as 'weird'.

Norrington had his pistol raised and stood still. Before him was Captain Reynolds, the youngest and most promising captain under his former Naval command. Next to him, Lieutenant Oswald and Able Seaman 'Chucky', both men who'd served alongside and under him since his first passage to the Caribbean.

Oswald raised his arm, cocked pistol in hand. Norrington fired.

Connor's boarding crew broke free of their spell and surged forward. Within seconds, the deck was the usual melee of a battle, slippery underfoot and distressingly, inevitably washed red.

Norrington crossed his blade with half a dozen men, and inevitably, he knew every single one of them. Inevitably, their blood stained his sword. One, Midshipman Richards, fought bravely, well enough to find an opening in Norrington's defense, but at the last moment, dropped his sword and turned, falling as a marine's sword pierced his back.

The sudden silence mere minutes later was as gruesome as the racket of the battle. Perhaps a third of the Cormorant's crew was still alive, standing quietly and horrified as Captain Reynolds first called to surrender and then handed his sword to Norrington without a word.

Norrington took it equally wordless, and he needed no words to order the Defiants to stand down. He looked once more at Reynolds, at the bodies, then at his crew. "Secure them in the hold," he raised his voice. "Then see if she is still seaworhty."

In the midst of the chaos and smoke, Jack hung to the rear, waving a perfunctory blade as he made his way to the Captain's Cabin as easily as he skirted the brawls at the Bride. Norrington's face was whiter than a sheet and Jack's sharp eyes missed neither the recognition, nor the pain. Not the pleasantest of encounters, fighting one's friends. Jack had done it so many times, he barely wasted a thought on it. But James' face, the painful stare of his eyes, lingered uncomfortably.

He rifled the desk, pulling out manifests and orders. James wouldn't have the heart to look at them. Jack wrinkled his nose at the papers. "Well, I s'pose he's gonna feel it, won't he. Poor bastard. So, Jackie, wot say you we take care o' these on our onesies. If there's anythin' important, I'll tell 'im later." He stuffed the papers in his never-ending coat pockets and slipped topside.

The pirate tugged at James' sleeve, his face appearing like a dark genie from behind. "Mate, leave Jenks and Connor to sort this out. The cargo crews are already takin' inventory." When James didn't move or speak, Jack aimed a discrete kick to his hindquarters.

Norrington stared at him, then turned to bark orders, appointing Connor to command their prize back to the Isla de Muerta, with a detour to a small island near San Felipe to release their captives. All was done that he could do, but he stayed, stayed until the Cormorant was provisionally in a shape to sail, stayed until the first bodies had been stitched into hammocks. "Take them. We have no time now. Let us bury them at sea once we are in safer waters," he rasped, then, finally turned and made back for the Defiant.

Jack had no stomach for funerals at sea or on land. He trotted behind James back to the Defiant, having already checked and appraised their plunder, a reaction as natural for him as breathing. He knew James would immure himself in his cabin to brood for a good long time and whiled it away idly, reading the various papers in his pocket, slouched against the bulwark, flask in hand. Boring, boring and more boring. He screwed up the papers and tossed a few at an errant seagull. He was about to pelt the gull with a second volley when a word caught his eye. Two words.

Black sails.

Now that was very interesting indeed. He stuffed that particular sheet away in his waistcoat and decided it was high time James Norrington got over his distress with a bit of alcoholic aid.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All four ships neatly fitted into an inlet that Navy issue maps suggested was too small to even hold a skiff. Still it was small, shielded from sight, and Norrington breathed a sigh of relief instead of being irked over Sparrow being right yet another time.

The shouts of the crew as they stormed onto the small beach were a harsh contrast to hours before, when they'd stood in silence as Norrington had read the last words to their fallen comrades - and their fallen foes - ere committing them to the sea. Their captives, too, had watched in silence, paying the same respect to the dead on both sides.

The captives were gone now, released on the coast, half an hour's walk from the next settlement, but the silence had remained and even now, the shouts only chased it back for a moment. Norrington stared out of the casements of his cabin, alone.

Jack had been haunting the lower depths of their prize throughout the proceedings, being congenitally averse to funerals on principle. "Bloody Navy protocol. Utter waste o' time," he grumbled to himself, passing the sentries with a nod. He stood in the doorway and watched Norrington for a moment. 'Poor old bastard. Not fun fightin' friends.' His brow furrowed and he closed the door, tossing himself into a chair.

"Mate, yer gonna give yerself a brainbubble doin' that. Have a drink, " he offered his pocket's ever-present flask.

Norrington accepted the bottle, turning it in his hands before drinking. "I do believe looking out of the casements is quite safe, thank you. Or at least is without drinking."

"When accompanied by broodin', it ain't. Yer face is long enough t'tie off a schooner. Y'know, keepin' all that inside yer gut---" Jack demonstrated with a poke----"is just gonna make you an' ev'ryone miserable. Misery lovin' company an' all that rot. Speak, will ya? Yer sittin' there like a clam wif th' clap."

"Sparrow, I may be clam, but I am quite sure you are the one with clap," Norrington mumbled, half-smirking. He took another drink. "Taking the lives of men who have saved mine is not one of my favourite pastimes," he hissed.

Jack had a perfectly wonderful reply, replete with cutting sarcasm and a host of other eloquent nonsense, but he held his tongue. James' eyes were looking inward and not liking what they saw very much. Jack disagreed entirely. His fingers twitched forward to retrieve his bottle. "Don't do to think about it too much, James."

"Perhaps not." Norrington paused for a moment and looked up, eyes mere inches from Jack's. "But I would not know how I could not. I may have slid into this recklessly foolish idea of a rebellion, but that does not mean I do not usually think." He smiled crookedly, thinking of the crew's ruckuss ashore. "They're trying to. And a keg of rum later, they might succeed. But as you know, I am rather a morose drunk."

Jack shifted and propped one leg on the arm of the chair, the other dangling. "Jamie, if there is one thing I've learned it's t'treat it all like a bad dream. Otherwise yer gonna go barmy."

Norrington stretched his legs, relaxing his posture somewhat. "But it is no dream, and I will not dishonour any of those who lost their lives today by pretending such. This is not a game of chess, and there is more at stake than my ego if I play against a supreme opponent." He grimaced. "Especially not when it seems I am taking my own pieces."

Jack's eyes narrowed and when he leaned forward to speak, his voice was sharp and low. "No, it's not a game at all. Unless you consider a play using friends as bait. You cannot be naive enough to think this little skirmish with that particular crew were coincidental, coincidentally speaking. That, my dear Norrington, is just one of the Bombay Runt's tricks. Seen it before and it's damned nasty play. Don't fall fer it. And don't underestimate Beckett. He'll arrange fer you to kill off half yer former command if he thinks it'll make you weak, mate."

Norrington was quiet for a moment, brow creased, face even paler than before. "Thank you," he rasped. "I am a bloody fool," he added under his breath. It had been a strike against the rebellion, against him, and if he and his men could risk death for their cause, they could risk their sound sleep and their feelings of friendship. One's own death, perhaps, was more direct and less guilt-ridden than the murder of a man once called comrade. But were those deaths worse than those of other company men they killed, that he'd known they would kill when this rebellion started?

He had thought the Company was an evil to the Caribbean, and he still thought the same. It was nothing but egoism to base his decision on who it was that stood in the way.

Jack shifted and Norrington focused on him again. "One of our water patrols sighted the Black Pearl once," he said, suddenly.

Jack turned towards Norrington with an odd expression, gratitude laced with something else, something that existed only between the pirate and that eldritch ship of his. There was a long moment of silence that sizzled between them, Sparrow's eyes gone blacker than a moonless night although his face remained impassive. "Whereabouts?" His voice was carefully neutral.

"One of the small islands south of Jamaica. Perhaps half a day's sail from the Isla de Muerta." Norrington took the bottle from Jack's hands, tugging. "Around the time you made your appearance. She quickly disappeared again, the Dutchman in her wake. And my first Lieutenant along with them."

"Ahhh!" Jack flashed Norrington a half-smile. "Had a feelin' she's been lurkin' about. I was sure she couldn't be far behind me, the two of us havin' gone down t'gether. " Jack's moustache twitched and he pulled the pilfered report out of his pocket and handed it to James. "Found that. Seems she an' Jones have been playin' ring-around-the-rosy. An' which Lieutenant would that be?" Jack's eyes had narrowed possessively: he had no allusions about his Pearl whatsoever, much as he adored her.

"The Lieutenant that was far too fond of you when you commandeered the Interceptor." Norrington straightened in his chair and rubbed the three-days' stubble on his chin. "Said you were the best pirate he had ever seen, in fact."

Jack beamed at him. "He must be an exceptional chap. Swear t'all the gods, she's gonna drive me t'bedlam one o' these days. But she's out there. That's certain." James wasn't sure if Jack was talking to him or just muttering to himself.

Norrington's smile faltered a bit. "I sure hope so." He shifted in his chair, boots scratching on the deck. "Either way, you want your ship back and I my Lieutenant, so I do suppose we have what one could call a common goal in addition to our common enemy."

"Course we do, mate. Told you I was rootin' fer you." Jack grinned at Norrington. His eyes absurdly innocent, he toasted the rebellion and figured the bottle would last another quarter hour. "Here's to commonalities, commonly known and commonly mostly ignored." 'Like stealin' thump-thumps an' hidin' 'em like a proper buccaneer, James Norrington.' Those thoughts made his smile ever-brighter.


	8. Politics as Usual

There had been a time when the citizens of Andover had treated a hanging like any town: as a show, a break of stillness between relentless labour. Not that day, not when a dozen of theirs stood lined up for slaughter, twelve men chosen at random to die for aiding and abetting the rebellion when all they had done was sleep through the ruckus. 

Marines had spread amongst the crowd, muskets and swords at the ready, their blue and scarlet uniforms like splotches of blood and death prepared to spread at any sign of disobedience.

Unlike the mass hangings at Port Royal, the weather was fine, the sun shining brightly off waves and water, dancing through the slats of the gallows to make golden filigree in the dust below. It was altogether too cheerful by far for such a sombre occasion.

From their perch on the roofs, Norrington's detachment of troops watched, waiting for what Jack would call the 'opportune moment'. Norrington had slid to the very side of one, invisible from below, but where his signal would be seen by every single one of his men. 

Jack watched James with one of his more twisted grins plastered on his face. Poor old Norrington was not enjoying his rebellion much these days and Jack thought that a terrible shame. He never took part in adventures of any kind without abandoning himself to every pleasure they could offer, be it the heady rush of a firefight, the calculated cool of strategy or the simple joy in chaos that seemed to be Jack's métier. Whatever the case, James looked like he had a case of griping bowels and that was no way to head into any battle. 

Jack had never seen James Norrington in a true rage before the moment he had read the Grapevine's notice of this impending decimation. Or, Jack thought, whatever ya call twelve in Latin, as though Becket had to do Caesar two better to maintain his terrible stranglehold on the Caribbean. Norrington had read the missive with a face that seemed set in stone, white and tensed, green eyes darkening to black emerald. It built slowly, this aura of danger and fury, replacing his usual control with a palpable feeling of febrile danger, like a line pulled too taut and ready to snap at a touch. For once, Jack had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Norrington looked ready to wreak hellfire on whatever came closest to him. In this case, it happened to be a rather fine crystal decanter which flew against the stone wall of their lair and splintered into a million shards to reflect unspent fury. His knuckles were still white, fists clenched and he blazed in the dim light with righteous rage. It took more than a little courage for Jack to quietly lay a hand on his shoulder and mildly suggest they put a stop to it. The fire had calmed but the embers still sparked and spat flames in those green eyes. 

Now, waiting to strike, he seemed entirely himself: collected, and in control, only a peek of that fire showing as he gazed at the sunlit gallows. Jack leaned forward. "You do seem to enjoy interruption' executions, luv. Is this a favourite pastime o' yours?"

"Don't raise your hopes too high," The hint of a smirk tugged at his tightly set lips. The marine's commander raised his voice, denouncing the rebellion and any who dared even think to support them. At that moment, the soldiers within the crowd all turned towards the gallows, forcing the people to turn with them, to watch, to memorize what happened to those considered traitors.

Norrington threw his arm in the air and slid down the side of the building, his soldiers descending to throw everything into mayhem.

The marines in the crowd, ready for such a situation, tried to draw weapons that had been cleverly tied down to their scabbards by the twenty best pickpockets in the rebel crew, specially recruited by Jack to make sure there were no civilians for James to worry himself sick over. He himself slid into the melee near the gallows, where flashing steel created quite a gauntlet, struggling to find a way to the executioner and his lever.

The thick of the fight was madness, shots fired without aim, swords slashing without reason and Jack sidled round pillar and post, backing away from one blade only to find another dangerously close to him from another direction. He wove and swayed, letting the battle itself pull him closer to his goal, poking with his cutlass when necessary, using the hilt as a bludgeon at times. His luck held and somehow, he made it through the very foot of the gallows.

Barely a sword's length away, Norrington let himself be taken by the current of Jack's path towards the gallows, his back to Jack, his blade holding pursuers at bay. He swung and turned on his heel, stifling a curse when he saw one of the marines proceed, slinging the noose around a skinny neck, the hemp already tight on another man's. The executioner ducked a shot and approached the lever. 

Norrington's eyes met Jack's for a brief moment and he vaulted the platform, steel ringing against the marine's as they struggled, dancing away from the two hemp-collared men.

Jack forced his way forward, viciously slashing low to cut just above boots and hamstring opponents, now lit with his own peculiar battle lust. Sparrow did not necessarily enjoy drawing blood but he certainly did not object to it when his own hide was on the line. He had been in many battles before this one and was not about to allow a tiny little nothing town diminish the legend of Jack Sparrow and if that cost a few over zealous marines and company toadies a few pints of blood, so be it. The damned executioner could see his approach--damn, the son of a trollop was smirking at him, black-gloved hand poised on the lever. Jack snarled as his path was blocked by a large marine with a very big sword. Exasperated and running out of time, Jack grinned up at him, ducked down low and slid his blade through the sword guard, yanking it free and sending it whizzing overhead, flashing in the sunlight.

Norrington's slash sent the marine tumbling from the platform and he glanced across just in time to see the executioner move to press the lever. Metal gleamed, and he thrust his sword towards the sky, impaling the thrown blade between hilt and knuckleguard. Steel screeched as it slid first down, then up as he let his blade circle, the metal singing as it took up speed until it spun around his.

„Jack! Down!“ Then he tore his arm down, flinging the sword towards the other side of the gallows. It cut through air and hemp, the two men that had struggled with the rope around their necks falling to the ground below as the traps opened. The blade bored into the gallows pole, shuddering with the impact, mere inches away from Jack's head. 

„I said down!“

Jack stared at the quivering blade a finger's breadth from his face, wheeled to parry a stroke from behind him and grinned, advancing on the executioner with mad black eyes and a teasing blade. "Now that was a very naughty trick, mate." The black-clad ruffian blanched and spread his hands to show he had no weapon. "Parley?" He queried and Jack's eyes became flint hard. "Parley be damned t' you!" He stuck his sword through the shoulder of the leather jerkin. "Sit tight then, ya yellow bastard!" 

"Parley wif an executioner! I never heard of such cheek!" he muttered, turning to where the battle was dying away, swords dropping and citizens picking them up to force the marines back towards the gallows.

The crowd's anger, subdued first by fear and then surprise, rose as they joined the rebels, and within minutes, the remaining soldiers were herded against the gallows' platform, swords at their throats as Jenkins tied them to the platform with the executioner's rope. Norrington lowered his sword and allowed himself a grim smile, then raised his voice.

"It was never my intention that your town be drawn into this fight. But you are part of it now, and as today has proven, all of you are in peril for it. For that I truly apologise. But I do not apologise for choosing this fight, and will not until my dying breath." He paused. "Those of you who wish to stand and take active part in this battle, I welcome with open arms. To the rest of you, I can only offer our aid in finding a refuge to build a new home."

He stepped down from the platform and left the cheering crowd to Jenkins, dividing who would join aboard the Erin to make for the Isla de Muerta, and whom the Cormorant would take to safer harbour. Jack came to stand next to him, smirking all too widely. "Do not expect me to do the same at your hanging."

"I wouldn't dream of it, luv. Besides, if I hang, yer gonna be right next t' me, so the point is moot, doncha think?" Jack laughed, his grin a golden deaths head. "Looks like we have a few more crewmen too. You sure this isn't a recruiting strategy, Jamie?"

"Gallows do seem to be where I recruit my best men," Norrington said, voice so light it was barely audible, but firm, his hand warm on Jack's shoulder for only a brief moment.  
Jack grinned sidelong at him, his eyes dancing before he winked. "Remind me t'thank you for those kind words, sir. Later." 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of all the islands in the Caribbean, this one was becoming far too familiar and, unlike the sunny palm-waving paradises scattered in a jewelled sea, it was dark, dank and smelled horribly of mould. The bay outside the cave's walls was equally gloomy, shrouded in such a perpetual fog that Jack had dubbed it 'Hyde Park Cove'.

He wandered over to one corner, perched on a rock, then flitted off into another recess, poking his head around pillars and stabbing his cutlass into shallow pools, vainly searching for any forgotten remnant of the treasure that had been so abundant and any hint of a Navy hiding place for stray hearts. He sniffed and muttered something about trap doors and false floors, stomping at various intervals until Norrington glared him to quiet.

He tripped over his left foot when he thought he spied a lone glimmer of gold in a corner, landing with a muffled "Bugger!" and pouting as he turned over the piece of glass, probably a remnant of one of his own bottles of James' rebel rum.

The parchment, soaked by the constant dampness, was soft under Norrington's fingertips, almost tearing apart even without him giving in to the urge to rip it into pieces. 

It could only mean well for a rebellion if tradesmen and royals all over the Caribbean began to speak up, began to ask how far Beckett's power, his authority, reached. If they demanded to hear the man on whom England had bestowed that power, demanded to hear from the Governor of Port Royal where he stood on the matter of the rebellion, and what he intended to do.

Only it did not mean well at all if one knew Beckett. Norrington huffed and moved his glare from Jack to the report. These tradesmen essentially asked that Beckett withdraw, that he would once more subordinate his power, because apparently that power was not good enough to keep peace, and in times of unrest, it was always safer to be loyal to England and its Crown, always safer to be able to say that one followed the hierarchy rather than a tradesman who had promised more profit.

Rats, leaving the sinking ship. Only that Norrington knew better. Beckett would not withdraw, would not slink back and duck behind the Governor or those tradesmen. All this achieved was that now, Governor Swann, though silenced and imprisoned, posed a threat to Beckett's authority, a worse threat than the rebellion, because Beckett could not simply denounce the Governor. Not now.

But Swann would not do Beckett the favour, not since the rumour of Elizabeth's death. Which meant that the use Beckett had in keeping Swann alive was vastly nearing its end, that the call for the Governor's voice was a call for the Governor's death. Norrington cursed and shot another glare into Jack's direction.

Jack had folded himself up into a pretzel on the damp floor, watching James and listening intently for any stray heartbeats. Norrington looked peevish, a worried line carved between his brows. "Wot's eatin' you now, luv?"

"So far, the tiny, if fierce, predator fish that attached themselves to your boot have not seen it fit to attack me," Norrington muttered. He held out the letter.

Jack rolled himself closer to take it, sharp eyes scanning quickly. "Ahhh. Seems like the poor ol' guv is...." He looked up at Norrington. "You aren't!"

"I certainly am not going to idly sit by, no." Norrington bit the side of his cheeks and raised one hand in the vain hope of silencing Jack.

The pirate cocked his head to one side. "You keep talkin' like that an'd I'm gonna start feelin' sane!" 

Jack's dark face loomed into the glow of Norrington's lamp. "So wot yer tellin' me is that you intend to do th' noble thing an' rescue the Governor. More fun when it's the gov'nor's daughter, if I do say so meself, but there's no accountin' fer present circumstances. Awright. How?"

Norrington paused, then let himself fall back into his chair. He shrugged, crumpled the parchment and dropped it on his desk. "The main problem is where. Nobody, not even your remarkably talented pirate spies, has seen the Governor in months. I can only guess that if he is still alive, he is in Jamaica. If there had been sailors involved, someone would know."

He blinked at his desk, thought of Port Royal, who would know what sailors didn't, and above all, who he could ask but sailors. He bit the inside of his cheek, looked at the cave's ceiling, down at himself, then, finally, at Jack. "I'm going to Port Royal."

Jack grinned. "Yer mad."

Norrington's green eyes fixed on Jack and he returned the grin, just barely, teeth glinting in the lamplight. "Perhaps, although I fail to see how you of all men would know. But I see no other choice. I have the blood of too many friends on my hands already."

"Luv, yer daft if you think you can get into Port Royal all on yer onesies an' not get nabbed by Beckett's informants wifin a quarter hour." Jack was mesmerised by those glittery green eyes, poised on the edge of complete desperation. "This could be a trap, y'know."

Norrington paused for a moment, uncrumpled the paper, then crumpled it again, cursing under his breath. Bloody pirate, always right and always distractingly close. Jack’s Grapevine, _Silky_ , had provided them with the information, the merchants’ letter he had read now enclosed in the Grapevine’s, bidding them fair trades and a felicitous bargain, as the Grapevine’s missives always did. It certainly sounded insane enough to be a trap, and even if he trusted himself to the – so far correct – information provided by pirates, the original letter itself could be the setting for an ambush.

"It could be. But I can't risk it not to be." His eyes narrowed. "I know this is dangerous. That is exactly why I am going myself," he said quietly. "It might not be important to the rebellion, but it is to me.”

"James, whether ya like it or not, yer the leader of this little insurrection. Can't risk you goin'. You need one of us, matey. Someone who can get in and out o' Port Royal without bein' seen by the authorities. Which, in my estimation, means someone who knows how t'do such a thing. Ergo, you need a pirate."

Norrington looked up and their noses nearly touched, Jack was so close. "Such as your not-so-humble self?"

The pirate batted his ridiculous eyes. "At yer service, yer admirableship." He tossed the paper aside and shoved his hand into Norrington's, fingers calloused, warm. "Accord?"

Norrington raised his brow. "I am not quite certain you know what you are agreeing to."

Perhaps for the first time, James may have understood the lure and lore of Captain Jack Sparrow, staring into drowning pool eyes, squid-ink dark and dancing with questionable mischief. "James, I wasn't born yesterday. You know someone in Port Royal who may know where our lost lamented Governor is being kept. So it follows that since I know that you know that someone there knows, and knowin' that, you should write said personage an' I will deliver yer message an' bring back the knowledge, as it were."

Norrington chuckled. "All that danger only for the _knowledge_ who 'said personage' is? I suppose I am flattered." He eyed Jack a bit longer, quiet, curious, wondering. Then he nodded to himself. "Very well then. But do not meet me here. If this report is true, there may not be enough time. Meet me on the coast of Jamaica." He leaned over the map. "Here."

Jack somersaulted himself over the desk to look, his own finger pausing as it traced the inked lines, eyes sliding sideways. "That's a lovely little cove an' you've been payin' attention! You sure you don't have pirate in yer blood, luv? You catch on right quick."

Their hands touched and Norrington raised an eyebrow. "Which helps in catching pirates quickly." He reached across Jack for the quill.

Jack lingered closeby, hovering like a defensive bee, trying to read the letter's contents without quite seeming to, a practise in which he was a complete failure. The third time Norrington coughed and glared at him, he backed away and resumed his exploration of the cave for lost or mislaid plunder or heartbeats. 

Norrington shook his head and returned to the letter. He ignored Jack's singing, glancing, and also Jack's choking noises as he spiced his water with lemon as opposed to rum. Finally, he held out the finished letter. "Allow me to save you the trouble of breaking and forging my seal."

The pirate pouted exactly like he remembered his five-year-old nephew had done when caught with the evidence of pilfered sweets, except that Jack only grinned at him as if to say 'pirate'. Both his eyebrows disappeared into the headscarf when he saw the salutation. "A filly?" He raised one finger, mouth open. "I----" He went silent and read it through again. 

"James, far be it from me t'question yer sanity but you sure this girly is gonna have that kind of infermation?" He looked thoroughly discomfited and scowled over Norrington's neat penmanship.

James half-smirked. "At least quite certain she can obtain it. Which will have to do. Now...may I?" He held out his hand expectantly.

Sparrow handed it back. Secrets? Codes? Or perhaps love letters? 

Norrington slid the letter into its envelope and sealed it, then stuffed it down the front of Sparrow's shirt. "So pirate, ready to keep to your word?"

"Which word would that be, luv?" He teased and their eyes locked. "Always said I was rootin' fer you, Jamie." He winked and saluted. "I shall return on me shield or under it....however that goes." He did an about-face and leapt up towards the cave's entrance with his usual swagger. "Ta!"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"No."

Swann pushed quill and parchment away with both hands. The elaborate desk was empty save for that and a ball of sigil wax, as there were few documents placed before a Governor whose post had been usurped. The letter Beckett had put in front of him held the first news he had heard in months, Port Royal further away than the twenty miles that separated it from these mountains.

Outside, it was sticky hot as ever and the cacophony of the jungle was so close it felt like a thunderhead looming. The single 'road' was barely a track, the 'fortress' nothing more than a frame farmhouse thrust on a promontory that poked over the edge of the mountain. Long ago, a hopeful Frenchman had tried to found himself a sugar plantation in the valley below, but bad weather and the locale's distance from civil law had made the effort untenable. Swann had found his grave in the ruined back garden, along with his wife, an overseer and three 'servants', all dated 1654 and evidently the victims of a slave revolt. They did not make for encouraging company.

The guards before each and every entrance were yet more discouraging, and, much like Beckett's black shadow, dreadful company. He rubbed his head. "No, Lord Beckett, I most certainly am not going to sign this," he repeated, voice flustered and tired at once.

Beckett's teeth set. "I would reconsider. Sir." Mercer emerged from his corner on cue, his striated, pitted face alight. He did so enjoy his work. 

"Of course you would, now wouldn't you?" Swann glanced at Mercer nervously, gripping the desk. "Truth be told, crass though it may be, I have little intention of denouncing James Norrington's rebellion, or treason as you call it in this fine letter here." He tapped his fingers. "That aside, you have seen fit to perform all matters bestowed on me by yourself, told me my office was no longer warranted nor needed. I fail to see how a public condemnation from my end should be necessary." He wished he had Norrington's laconic smirk. Instead, he worried the nails on his left hand.

Beckett sighed heavily and got to his feet. "That is precisely why I have found it necessary to replace you. You have no vision at all. A public condemnation will assure people that....why am I explaining myself? Mercer, take care of this!" 

Mercer grinned and bore down on Swann with his most ferocious growl. He made a grab and a pewter platter crashed to the floor.

Swann gave a highly indignified squeak and jumped from the desk, stumbling as Mercer made a grab for his left hand, prying open his fist. He thought he could hear a bone crack as Mercer forced his ring finger, yanking at the sigil ring. The cabinet behind them shook as the governor lashed with his right arm, a large ceramic teapot falling from its perch onto Mercer's head.

Mercer lost his footing and let go with a groan, but, attracted by the noise, guards were approaching, one from the veranda, and two more from the door. Swann turned to and fro, then again, hopping on one foot because the pewter plate on the toes of the other had hurt. He darted back, but they closed in quickly. He held up both hands. "Wait. Get Beckett. Tell him I have something for him to see."

The guards looked at each other, then at Swann, then backed away slowly. Clearly, the governor had gone mad. He was dancing around while Mr. Mercer crawled at his feet spitting and growling. The senior of them kept his wits and his bayonet trained on Swann. "What?"

"It is what he wants." Swann held up the ring with his right hand.

The guard turned, glancing back towards the hallways over his shoulder. "Milord? I think you should come here." The guard spoke slowly, not willing to jump forward but still wary of the Governor's crazily flapping periwig.

Milord Beckett emerged from behind a large china cabinet and strode towards them. "What is the problem here?" He stopped, one eyebrow raised. "Mercer, get off the floor." 

"Lord Beckett. I do happen to believe you wished to not only use my office, but also my name and sigil." Swann, face red, smiled and cackled as if drunk. "As my dear Elizabeth - God Rest Her murdered Soul - would say: Rot in hell." With that, put the sigil ring into his mouth and swallowed.

Mercer had struggled to his knees and charged towards Swann, eye level with his Lordship. He collided with one of the table legs and fell forward with a groan. Beckett grimaced. "Get up! You, take the Governor up to his room and keep him there. You saddle up and get ready to take a message back to Port Royal for me." He noted, maliciously, that his governorship was looking rather ill. "It's only a matter of time before that ring. Well. We'll just wait." He pinched the bridge of his nose and was quite disgusted by the resurgence of chamber pots in his life.


	9. Moonlight Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one spoilerish, PG-13 rated action illustration in this chapter.

Privately, Jack did not like being a messenger but sticking to one person for so long was positively suffocating him. And it was too bad of James Norrington to be bringing girls into all this, especially after the farm animals. Jack grumbled the entire time he was rowing from Connor's manned jolly to shore. 

Fortunately for Jack, Connor was an inveterate gossip and filled in a few of the blanks about this particular girlie. 'French, y'say. Sounds pretty." That had sent Lt. Connor into an ode to Mme. Louise's charms. By the time Sparrow got himself to shore in what amounted to a tiny canoe, he was pea green with envy and entertaining some uncharitable thoughts about Norrington. After all, he did steal the heart from that jar, tricky bastard. So this was one of 'his' prizes. Jack chewed on his lip and wondered idly if there might be time for one of his infamous Sparrow seductions.

Threading the back streets of Port Royal at three in the morning was easy enough for Jack. He had a pocket flask of rum, his cutlass, three pistols and a bellyful of spleen. He reckoned he was ready for anything.

The back streets became steeper and the fog was fortuitously thick all the way up the hill, where the fine houses tried to push their roofs above the harbour and its smells. Jack stopped right in the middle of the High Street, looked forward, looked back. "Well, hullo Port Royal. The Company ain't doin' much to secure it." He pushed that fact into the back of his addled brain and slipped behind No. 47's fancy iron gates like a shadow.

One look at the back trellis made up Jack's mind. He was, after all, the best pirate anyone had ever seen. If there was a girl involved, he had to make an appropriate entrance.

The trellis was, alas for Jack, not covered in honeysuckle, but roses. By the time he had ascended, he felt distinctly like the idiot prince in Rapunzel and was cursing fluidly and not-very-quietly. The casement was open and he could hear her giggling. His moustache drooped. "I don't mean any disrespect to yer gardener but was he related to Torquemada, pray tell?"

"Tais-toi y viens ici!" Her voice was surprisingly low for such a little woman. He stood up straighter, once he got his boot unhooked from a branch and pushed his hat out of his eyes.

He treated her to his best grin. "You were expectin' me?"

"I was expecting someone. Mais ne pas le circque!" she laughed. "You must be Capitan Sparrow. I've heard of you."

Jack was delighted when she placed him in a comfortable chair and immediately poured him a large drink. He had the odd feeling he was being petted and it was very refreshing after the Locker and rebellions and all that. "I was sure you might have," he beamed. "Oh, got a letter for you. Mme?"

She held out one hand. "D'accord. Non, Mlle. Louise." Her eyes were as dark as his own and for all her frilly attire, not the least bit sleepy. Jack finished his drink. She tapped her foot. He got to his feet and tried to get close.

After five minutes of this manoeuvring, she tripped him and retrieved the letter from his coat pocket herself. "You have a rose stuck to your backside, Captain."

Her frills floated over to the desk, where she opened the letter and scanned it, then rang the bell. "Get off ze floor, please! And have another drink. I will answer this now." She was all business.

Pouting, Jack lounged back in his chair and sulked at the rum. 'Bloody Frenchwomen! Always business first. She'd be good at the Company!"

His sulking became outright shock when her maid knocked on the door. "Mlle?"

Louise glanced at the pirate with a small smile. "Please get me my stationary box. Merci." Her smile broadened a little. "James is always so very careful, n'est-ce pas?" She held James' letter over the lamp's heat, still smiling as several more lines of script became visible as the lemon juice browned. "Ahhh...cela se voit."

Jack was not smiling at all. "Secret love notes, eh?" he teased sourly.

"Of course." She watched him coolly. "Oh, do stop sulking! You are not ze only pirate in these waters, monsieur!" She scolded him lightly. "Besides, if you pout you will not enjoy the strawberry tarts my maid is bringing up for you to enjoy."

Strawberry tarts went a long way to mollifying Jack's understandably wounded feelings.

He refrained from lifting a nice gold snuffbox from her table, flirting more successfully with her maid, who was as tall as Mlle. Louise was short but no less attractive for her height. She was as skilled as her mistress in distraction manoeuvres and, although Jack was aware he was being distracted, it was pleasant and besides, he knew their little trick and there would be ample time to decipher any return message.

Which is why he was very surprised when Mlle turned, dismissed her Amazon attendant and smiled. "Tell James that all will be as he asks."

"That's it?"

"Oui, that is it."

"No return receipt requested? No message?"

"Non."

Louise smiled a different smile at him and Jack understood exactly why James had found her such good company. "You can get back the way you came in, if you like. But I think the back door is a better choice, non?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Jack returned to the cove Norrington had pointed out to him, Connor and his boat were gone, but James was there, shaded by a cliff from the first rays of the sunrise. "Why Sparrow, I see you return, but the shield you claimed to be carrying is most definitely missing."

"Bugger that! You and yer secret messages! Who th' hell is she? A Frog spy you picked up on the side?" Jack snarled. He was not pleased at all that Mlle. Louise had not only been in on Norrington's scurvy and clever trick, but worse, was impervious to his own undoubted charms.

"Next time you want messages delivered in th' fog, you can scare up a banshee!"

Norrington laughed and threw Sparrow a bottle of rum. "You volunteered to deliver the missive. I gave you every opportunity to even read my private correspondence, Sparrow, and I am quite certain a clever pirate such as yourself is familiar with the necessity of... less obvious conversation."

"Of course I'm 'familiar with the necessity of..." Sparrow mimicked. "I should know better than to trust the Navy anyway."

"That you should indeed." Norrington smirked. "Although I do have to insist that neither am I Navy anymore, nor does the Navy deserve credit in regards to drafting letters not legible by everyone." He pointed. "And I do hope you will cease pouting like an offended child before the next two days pass."

Jack glared over the rim of the bottle and forced himself to grin.

"Would it bother you?"

"If I say no, will you stop?"

"I'll think about it." Jack wasn't quite ready to let bygones by bygones, but, considering the whereabouts of missing thump-thumps and the current political climate, he decided it was better to relent. He did, however, demand an inordinate amount of rum and teased James about little frogs for hours.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a day later and the sun had not yet set when an unusually quiet Norrington girthed his sword and checked his pistol. The tide was coming in, and Norrington had only smirked at Jack's (loud) complaints of a soaked seat of his breeches. "Wait here. If I am not back with Governor Swann within a day, leave. Or if you leave now, be so kind as to leave my boat."

Immediately, Jack was on his feet, his wet arse end forgotten. "Sorry, matey, but you're gettin' a second whether ya like it or not." He'd been watching the erstwhile-admiral like a hawk and had no intentions of letting him run off, perhaps with a hidden heart, even if it was on a noble mission.

"Sparrow, while I may not like you, I do believe I have not yet resorted to referring to you as _it_." Norrington raised an eyebrow. "I imagine a distraction manoeuvre may well be of help, and I have little time to waste by arguing with you." With that, he left their damp refuge, stalking towards the outskirts of Port Royal, a different direction than to where he'd sent Jack. 

After an hour's walk in silence - at least on Norrington's part - they could see the first houses, and Norrington stopped. "Jack. Let me assure you, I am suitably impressed and possibly even grateful, but the Governor is going to be well guarded. This will not come as a surprise to Beckett. I have no wish for you to be caught in the crossfire." He smiled crookedly and cocked his head. "After all, that would prevent me from hanging you at one point."

Jack permitted himself a soft laugh. "You're still on about hangings. You've got a mania, mate."

"More than one," Norrington said quietly, glancing to where the sun was setting in the distance. "I suppose there is no chance to stop a fool from being a fool." Without looking back he darted through the vast yard of one of the houses into the back, then around another corner.

Jack was rather surprised to find himself face to face with a laundry line.

Even more surprisingly, Norrington was _studying_ that laundry line. Was he looking for the Governor's skivvies amidst blue petticoats, shirts and a torn tablecloth? Counting the petticoats must have displeased the Commodore, because he grimaced. "The Blue Mountains. Around 15 miles east from here. It seems my estimation of a day was mistaken."

Norrington grimaced and stared off in the distance. They would take the night to walk the distance, and he had not expected to lie in wait another day. The night would be their advantage, but he did not know if Swann had another left. 

Jack leaned against a lean-to shed out of the sun, alternately watching James and making faces at a pair of penned donkeys. He followed Norrington's gaze and studied the laundry. "Blue is this year's black?"

Sparrow cursed himself for a fool not to have divined the laundry code sooner and glared at the assorted vestments with a crooked grin. "That's a nice trick. Morgan was famous fer it. Sure you don't have pirate in yer bloodline?"

He scowled and elbowed James in the ribs. "It's faster to ride, y'know."

His first answer was a glare, then Norrington followed Jack's intent stare. His grin was the closest to a laugh in two days. "So your ilk _is_ useful to have around." Before the pirate could finish sputtering, Norrington had already darted towards the pen.

Jack gritted his teeth and followed, grumbling about Navies, commodores and Norringtons under his breath.

Equanimously, the donkeys trotted over the fields, through jungles and ferns, finally into rockier terrain and up a stony path. The hoofbeats were sure in spite of the falling darkness, the moon hidden behind cliffs and clouds.

Jack bounced around on his mount and tried not to laugh at Norrington, whose long legs were dangling a mere foot or so from the ground. But the little beasts were sure of their turf and headed up into the foothills happily anticipating a nice nettlepatch as a reward.

Finally, they reached a clearing just before the road turned to the peak and Norrington reigned in the donkey, slipping from the broad back. It blew through its nostrils and wandered off to graze when Norrington patted its shoulders. "One last time, Sparrow. Are you certain?"

Jack hauled himself off his mount and stomped around in a circle to get the feeling back in his feet. "Certain o' wot? The End of Days? Success? The Second Coming?"

"Nevermind." Norrington had read of the small fortress in one of his predecessors’ journal, but never journeyed that far inland himself. Beckett must have found it when scouring the plantation accounts. He drew his sword, one pistol in his left hand, another wedged into his belt. "Keep behind me."

Jack was too sore from bouncing to argue and fell behind James, poking at the vegetation with his sword and keeping a sharp eye for snakes.

The air was much cooler, almost chilly and all around them stretched green hills and jungle. The glades and hills lived up to their name, grass and vegetation nearly blue green in the mist.

Norrington saw the mansion in the distance only seconds before he saw the first guard, silencing the beginning shout for alarm with his sword. There was only one path to approach and he swallowed. Shaded by the cliff on the west side, he moved closer. 

The next guard spotted him quickly enough to raise an alarm, the echoing hollers as loud as his pistol's shot. The lights within the house lit up and within seconds, half a dozen Company men descended upon them, more emerging from the mansion.

Jack swerved into the brush, taking down two of James' pursuers and effectively eliminating another with his pistol butt. There were too many of them and he bolted after James, struggling to keep up and reload at the same time.

A shot echoed and Norrington stumbled, yanking his sword from the shooter's stomach. Soldiers poured from the garden like a stream as he slashed out at one after the other, one sword in each hand; pistols discarded without shot.

Jack slashed his way forward, then side-stepped, one eye on Norrington, the other casting wildly for more guards. It was, of course, fortunate that they were in Company uniforms and screaming yellow waistcoats were easily spotted, but he had no idea if he was going to remain in one piece.

Norrington came to fight back-to-back with him, and Jack barely had the time for a quip on tactics when he found himself faced with too much yellow - and a pistol's muzzle. He gulped.

Norrington spun the second the shot fired, stumbling back against Jack, the guard dropping to the ground with his own sword stuck in his chest.

With a groan, James pushed himself away and launched at the next guard, slashing and thrusting his way to their origin, further to his destination.

Jack felt James stumble and his eyes grew wide with horror, sure that he'd been hit. But James kept moving forward and there was no time to think at all. Jack had just dispatched an odd guard with a kicked slop bucket and three thrusts, forcing his way towards the small farmhouse.

Suddenly, quiet fell, only the wind and the blood rushing in their ears. Norrington grimly retrieved his sword from another body and pushed open the side entrance door. "Wait here, I will find the Governor."

Jack didn't bother answering. He was not waiting anywhere and followed doggedly into the house, immediately rushing the cook and two guards disturbed at dinner. 

Norrington vaulted up the staircase, tossing the two guards over the rail. There was only one door where three more men still stood guard, muskets at the ready. He spun to one side and charged, screams and the clash of steel on steel the only sound.

Jack found himself face to face with a large spit in the hand of a very large cook. No amount of cajoling seemed to help and Jack finally went after him with pistol and cutlass, screaming like a possessed banshee and chasing him back into the pantry, which had a very convenient lock. 

By the time he'd turned back to find Norrington, he had another three guards hot on his heels. He careened around a corner and headed up the back stairs.

The door gave under Norrington's kick and he rushed inside.

It was pitch dark save for a few rays of moonlight allowed in by the window, and he could barely see the shadow move before he saw the dagger glint.

The moonlight hit Norrington and pierced straight to his bones, Mercer's dagger stuck in rotting flesh: His scream became silence when skeletal hands grabbed his head and chin, wrenching up until there was a sickening crack and he fell just as clouds crossed the moon once more.

"Co-Commore Norrington? James?" Swann's voice was hesitant, coming from under the desk. 

Jack turned the corner, dashed through the room, then leaned over and grinned at Swann. "Well, there you are, luvie! Did you count to ten?" He extended a hand and helped the Governor from his cramped quarters.

Swann wondered if hallucinations were another symptom of his aching stomach. "Sparrow?" he sputtered. "Commodore?"

"Not anymore." Norrington grinned from the darkness. "Now, Governor, I do believe it is time to escape."

"Wonderful, innit?" Jack agreed, straining to see James' face. "Now, c'mon, we're on a schedule."

Jack grabbed Swann from his hiding place under the desk and ran back towards the little skiff he'd spied near the riverbank. The river itself was swollen to epic proportions due to recent rains and there was no telling how far into the jungle it would rush, but it was downhill from Beckett's guards and that was Jack's only objective. James raced with them, strangely silent and Jack felt altogether too comfortable with such an unexpected means of transport.

The little boat took the current and practically flew down the mountain, spraying them all with churning foam and bouncing them over rocks so hard Jack was sure the bottom of the little craft would split. By some miracle or Jack's own luck, they spilled into a small pond only a short walk from the bay.

In their wild rush down the mountain, Swann's stomach had taken all it could possible endure. By the time they were nearing their stronghold on Isla De Muerta, he was leaning over the rail, impressing them with prodigious puking. Jack, under most circumstances, would have been paralysed with merriment, but he hardly noticed. He was much too busy watching the silent Norrington with deeply suspicious eyes.

The fog hung deep over the water as Norrington manoeuvred the small sloop through reefs, his hands steady on the wheel. He spared neither Sparrow nor Swann a glance, only stared at the small clearing ahead.

Night was falling again and the first moonlight fought its way through the fog, its light eerie golden on the billowing sails. Norrington turned the wheel and then, when he was no longer shaded by the sails, Jack could see it: the blue uniform hanging in tatters from white-boned shoulders, every single knuckle and finger joint visible on Norrington's hand curled around the helmspokes. James' teeth were as white as his bones as he grinned.

Sparrow swallowed hard and did not realise it, but he was gripping Swann's hand. They looked at each other in dismay, then back at James. A cloud crossed the moon and Norrington looked perfectly normal. They looked at each other again, then at their clasped hands. Jack hemmed and sidled away to find some rum. Swann leaned back over the rail and retched.


	10. Idylls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one XX-rated action illustration in this chapter.

Jack was not lounging in the cave with his usual insouciance. He wasn't pacing or showing the normal indication of a man deeply confused and curious but he was tense and nervy and wandered to and fro aimlessly. Or so it seemed.

Mostly, he was trying to figure out one James Norrington, silent and still, perched on one of the rocks. Coat and waistcoat discarded as well as his sword, he seemed at ease. As Norrington was not obliging enough to sit in the moonlight, it was impossible to tell if he was his usual broody self, or quiet for another reason.

Jack circled behind him, clattering among the rocks and wondering mightily. He was quite used to seeing and experiencing things that the average sailor considered fish tales. That was all part of being Captain Jack Sparrow, but he was not ready to be sharing quarters, much less high-minded ventures like a rebellion, with an undead admiral. He peered at Norrington and scowled, heading towards another corner of the cave to check for stray moonbeams.

Something about James' brooding was different. He didn't look as constipated as usual. That was disheartening. He almost missed Norrington's usual sour expression. This new, inward-seeking contemplation was a different thing entirely.

Quite suddenly, Norrington rose to his feet, "Did you leave at least a glass to the good Governor for his nerves?" His tone was amused and he came uncomfortably closer with every word. Just as he would have passed a moonbeam, he sidestepped, and then he loomed right before Jack.

"His Nibship is sleepin' like a baby wif a bottle of very fine port aboard the Aurelia." He squinted and backed himself into a boulder. "Why?"

"Because he seemed to need a drink," Norrington took one step back, just barely out of the moonlight. "Quite frankly, you seem as if you do as well, despite constantly drinking. I suppose your becoming seasick does explain why you are so eager to lose ships."

"Never been seasick in me life, matey!" Jack edged forward, hoping that James continued his prowling, the moonlight glinting off the whites of his own eyes. "An' I did not need a drink. I never need a drink," he muttered.

"I will have to remember that the next time you complain about lack of sustenance." Norrington quirked a smile, but instead of taking a step forward, he stepped to the side.

Jack followed and circled, his hands waving around in James' face. "Well, now that you've rescued th' Guv, I suppose that qualifies you as bonafide hero, don't it?" James kept irritatingly out of reach of the thin bands of pale light streaming into the cave.

Instead, he backed Jack towards the centre of the cave, that unreadable smirk still on his face. "I thought it was supposed to be the Governor's daughter," he said dryly.

"No accountin' fer taste, is there?" Jack managed a bit of his normal bravado, but made an effort to stay out of arm's reach. After all, no sense getting too close if the hands that would grab him were going to be nasty and skeletal.

Norrington took another step forward and laughed softly when Jack tripped to sit flat on his arse on the Aztec chest. Then he took mercy and took another step into the moonlight. 

His shirt was filthy and worn, but it did not hang in tatters from his shoulders. The only bone Jack could see was the arch of James' collarbone from throat to shoulder, stretching under pale skin. With a smirk, Norrington held up his left hand, revealing the fresh cut across his palm. "Satisfied, pirate?" He arched his eyebrow.

It was a most uncomfortable, not to mention undignified position and Jack scrabbled back on the chest, much like the monkey on a keg of powder. "Not precisely."

There was something very predatory in Norrington's look and it was, in a word, intriguing.

Norrington cocked his head and the other eyebrow came up. "Sparrow, I returned the medallion. I can assure you I am very much alive."

"Mate, you've never looked 'very much alive' in yer life. Too much Navy braid." Jack quipped, inching back a bit on the chest. It was rather cold and uncomfortable and his heart was beating unnecessarily loudly.

James was still smirking. Even in his shirtsleeves, that smirk looked like more Navy braid. Jack's brow drew together in a knot.

With a sigh, Norrington held out his arm, pulling up his sleeve to bare wrist and lower arm. "There. My pulse."

The admiral's hand was thankfully warm to the touch; browned skin over fine bones. Jack's fingers lingered along his wrist, dancing like feathers, as if James' skin were a pocket to be picked.

He gazed at Norrington speculatively. "You've got one. That's a good thing." There was still a breathless silence between them, green eyes fixed on dark ones. "I've always liked a good pulse."

"Now do you believe me? Or," James laughed softly, otherwise very still and focused, "does Captain Jack Sparrow require more proof to put his fears at ease?"

Jack thought it very silly that he was holding his breath but he couldn't seem to help it much. "You puttin' my fears at ease is rather a twist, innit?"

Now, Jack enjoyed green eyes very much. He was quite partial to them, especially when they were focused on him with such a delightfully hungry look. "Wot did you have in mind?"

There were those little voices in his head, of course, both screaming "BLOODY IDIOT!" but then again, voices in one's head didn't enjoy green eyes.

"Seems that at least this time, I was successful in inspiring such fears." Quite suddenly, Norrington pulled him to his feet by the hand he was still holding, so they stood, face to face and very close.

Jack opened his mouth, closed it, and brushed a non-existent bit of dust from Norrington's shoulder. "Wouldn't call it fear, particularly," he murmured.

Those little voices were now a chorus of warning. He ignored them entirely.

"I see," Norrington's voice was low. It was curious, the warmth of Jack's body, of his hands, the thrill at his touch; at feeling warmth, at feeling the touch at all. Hunger, yes, but utterly different from the hungry bloodlust he had struggled to control as an undead. He took a deep breath to clear his head, but did not step away.

"James?"

"Yes?"

Jack ran a quick tally in his head: warm hands, a nervous smile, green eyes. His inner voices were now cheering him. He took a breath, leaned forward and kissed the commodore.

Very warm lips, most definitely human, tasting of salt sweat; tense, then softening. He suppressed a grin and enjoyed the kiss as much as he could. After all, he was likely to get a wallop to the head for it.

James growled softly: this he felt, felt with equal vehemence as that of life returning to his body, and with that same vehemence he gave himself to it. He slid both hands up, one into Jack's hair, tangling in the stiff dreads, the other around his shoulder, bearing them both down to the ground. 

Jack reacted like a disturbed octopus and curled himself around the admiral with every appendage available. He had long stopped wondering what new turn into insanity his life would manifest. Shagging James Norrington in a cursed cave, next to a cursed chest in the moonlight seemed about as crazy as the Locker, but much more enjoyable. Then he stopped thinking entirely and concentrated on pale flesh that warmed under his lips.

The stone floor was cold, but James was focused on the heat of Jack's skin and its distinct taste of salt. With both hands, he pushed the pirate's waistcoat off, then reached down to yank his shirt out from under the sash. He let his hand wander Jack's chest, pressing the heel of his palm against heated skin and feeling every shudder. "More alive now?" he laughed under his breath, lips and teeth travelling to just below Jack's throat.

Sparrow managed to gasp out a laugh. "Most alive. Wish I'd met you belowdecks earlier." He guided James' hand around to the backlace of his breeches between kisses, tugging it. His boots were still on, but that never interfered with the important parts and it would not be the first time he'd shagged with his britches around his knees.

James yanked at one of Jack's boots, then his breeches, then at the front of his own, pulling the flap open and shoving them down. He kissed Jack fiercely, groaning when their pricks touched, Jack's fingers digging into the dip between thigh and buttocks. "Pleased to be of help," he rasped into Jack's ear, pinning him to the stone floor, arching closer. James tore his shirt over his head and pressed against Jack full length, bare skin from chest to his knees.

[ Click here for XX-Rated Action Illustration](http://elessil.lima-city.de/cave.jpg)

Jack might have responded with words, had his face not been buried against James' neck as his legs wound around the admiral's narrow hips. "C'mon," he growled softly and bucked upwards hard.

"Easy," James ground out, head bowed against the hollow of Jack's throat, one hand trembling on the rocky floor, the other steadying them against the chest. With a low growl, he gave up his perch and pushed over the lantern next to them. The oil ran out onto his fingers, across his palm and his wrist and he slicked himself with it, smearing the rest between Jack's buttocks. He wedged one arm between stone floor and Jack’s back, fingers curled hard around his shoulder, holding fast. With the other hand he guided himself inside, then shoved.

Jack wriggled beneath him like a slippery eel, his tongue finding its way into James' ear, down his throat, and his strangled cry was more of a grunt. Which, had Jack been able to talk, would have proved a point of conversation but Jack wasn't talking at all. He was making plenty of noise, none of it coherent, one leg wound around James' hip, the other foot kicking him in the middle of the back as they pushed and pulled and shoved against each other.

It was frantic, it was sweaty, and that was where the similarity with James' last and first belowdecks tumble ended. Their skin was bare, their eyes open, and Jack practically clung to him, fingernails digging deep into his skin, without even trying to be silent. James groaned, his breath harsh as he sped up, one hand between them, stroking Jack just as hard as he thrust into him.

At the touch of James' fingers, Jack practically howled, his voice bouncing off the cave walls in series of diminishing echoes, his amber legs tightened, only his fingertips against James' scalp still quivering. His prick, trapped between them, throbbed and pulsed with every movement, his gasps shallow and ragged until he jerked and spasmed in a rush of wet heat.

James quieted him with his lips, feral and demanding, their tongues entangled. Then he stilled, gasping for breath against Jack’s lips. He shuddered and moaned softly, a strangely gentle sound as he finished.

Jack's head was crooked at a rather uncomfortable angle against the chest, his heart still so loud in his ears, although his pulse had slowed. That was interesting. He shifted, lips questing for another kiss, for James' kisses were delightful.

James panted and leaned into the kiss, lingering, hand on Jack's neck to pull him deeper for just one second, then, just as suddenly, he let go and pulled away, sitting back on his heels, already tugging at his breeches. "On your feet," he said, voice raspy, a low laugh mixed into the words.

Jack scrabbled around on his knees, attempting to right his 'effects', laughing. "That's a different kinda sword fer you, mate."

He slid that convenient backlace tight and leaned back against the chest, grinning like a monkey. "I rather like yer way of provin' yer not undead. Is that how they do it in London these days?" His eyes twinkled.

"So it would seem, Captain, so it would seem." Within moments, Norrington was dressed, prim and proper but for the line of sweat on his forehead and down his collar. And the smirk on his face.

Jack got to his feet. "Wot say you we find a bit o' refreshment an' not shock yer troops, eh?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The newspaper rustled when Beckett pushed it aside. Norrington and his ragged rebellion were not yet crowing about how they had rescued the 'rightful' governor. He sneered into his tea. Inconvenient though it was, he knew well enough that the blathering, periwigged fool had some hold over Port Royal's nobility, as if the stuttered nonsense from his lips were more important than well-reasoned business plans.

Swann's signature under his drafts had combined both, until some inebriate had seen it fit to inform the old man that his daughter was dead, or vanished, and definitely not in Beckett's reach. Then he had grown a spine. If reports were to be believed, so had Norrington, a quite visible one at that.

Another foolish tale. Mercer's demise was a problem more pressing than sailors' superstition. It was time to find another man to sell business to the rest of these backwaters.

Sir Augustin Ryder had spurred his mount to a full gallop where he could, but here, in Port Royal's staid streets, he slowed to a stately trot. It would never do to go tearing through the town like a young buck at his age. He dismounted and tossed the reins to a Marine. He had to duck to make his way into Lord Beckett's waterfront office. "My dear Cutler, the sea air is agreeing with you admirably." He smiled and swung into a chair, his dark coat swirling around his legs like a panther's tail.

"Augustin, how kind of you to respond to my invitation so promptly. I certainly hope the sea is agreeing with your trade better than others since your godson's unfortunate venture." Sir Augustin Ryder, well-renowned as businessman of influence, both in trade and with Port Royal's nobility, had not only significant wealth and his own fleet to show, but also happened to be, rather unfortunately, James Norrington's godfather.

Ryder laughed softly and tossed his hat on the desk. "Never thought he had it in him. You know, he was such a dull child. Bright to a fault but depressingly dull." His eyes were amused, if anything. "Aren't you taking this all a bit too seriously, Cutler? It will blow over."

Beckett waved his hand dismissively. "Certainly it will. But I would rather that be ere it costs thousands of crowns in economic possibilities. You must be familiar with simple people. All it takes is a rusty sword and a few messy encounters for them to be impressed." He paused, delicately pouring Ryder a cup of tea. "Especially if nobody to whom they listen demonstrates the disadvantages of such anarchy."

Sir Augustin accepted the tea with a marksman's steady hand. "I hadn't noticed in my corner of the world. Did you know that this new treaty with the Dutch is yielding remarkable results? I must recommend it to your broker." He set the cup down, his eyes very direct and still amused. "I'm not the one to go preaching politics. But I fail to see the problem. You have the Royal Governor at your fingertips. What more could be necessary?"

Beckett grimaced behind his cup. "I feel that if tradesmen were to speak up on the true devastation and havoc caused by the rebellion, people might be more inclined to listen. That aside, it seems the...current Governor is no longer inclined to fulfil his task."

"Ahhh. " Ryder leaned forward, his chin balanced on the tips of long fingers, barely touching as if in prayer. "Cutler, do be plain and tell me what happened and what you want. And don't call me a tradesman again. It could be bad for Company stock."

"Very well," Beckett half-smiled. "Since Weatherby Swann's unfortunate...disappearance, there is a void. As the one entrusted with making the Caribbean a financially suitable endeavour for the Crown, I believe it is time for a new Governor. For a Governor who would put the blossoming of these backwaters before his own personal ties with ravaging rebels."

Ryder sat back. "I see." His eyes never left Beckett's in a most disconcerting manner.

Beckett leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. "Of course, such a Governor who is benefiting business as such would also benefit from his own business."

"I hadn't thought to be coaxed in Morgan's shoes." Ryder’s smile broadened. "He did have such big damned feet." Then he lounged back in his chair. "Did my godson go and get that wrong, too? It's supposed to be the Governor's daughter." He laughed. "Alright, my lord. Let's consider the figures of such a proposal later. I'll see what I can do about finding my errant kin. "

Beckett smiled and touched his fingertips. "I see you understand. Good hunting."

Ryder uncoiled himself from the chair. "I suppose I can stay in Port Royal for a few days' time. In that case, milord Beckett, until this evening's musicale. I'm sure there will be one somewhere." His lean face crackled into another laugh. "A bientot!"


	11. Intrigues

The Pearl made so much speed, Groves nearly tumbled from her topgallant. He had given up on trying to change her course, but there were enough supplies belowdecks that he needed not to worry. As long as the black ship saw it fit to approach a coastline ever again.

He was staring at the horizon, ready to jump overboard at any sight of land. He saw only the Dutchman, but that dark ship and her cursed Captain now worried him less than the dark, cursed ship whose timbers creaked underneath him.

She churned through the waves at speed, in circles, with or against the wind, and the one thing he had seen in months now was her hull, the Dutchman's, and water.

Her timbers shuddered with her speed and the sea was choppy, leaving a broad swathe of foam trailing behind her like a comet's tail, broken only by the Dutchman's looming shadow. Gulls banked overhead in the wind and she veered, without warning.

Waves erupted from her larboard side as she spun around in an arc no sane captain would ever have ordered, sending Groves flying to the nearest bit of rigging. The Dutchman seemed to pause, broad sails glowing in the red setting sun. The Pearl was dead still in the water, shuddering against the current, her black sheets quivering. Her rigging gleamed electric against the patchworked blackness.

Groves clung to a halyard and slid down in the eerie moment of silence, crashing to the deck and running to her bow, ducked. He clung to the dark wood and swallowed. "Would you mind terribly if I got off here?" he murmured, but the Pearl had ceased to react to his words with shimmies and thrums.

A great shudder ran through her again but it came from within her timbers. She started, stopped, trembled on the foam like a bubble. The Dutchman was picking up speed. And the Pearl's yards and sails moved. She moved, her sails filling as though Boreas himself had released a blast for her alone.

Groves was not a religious man, had never been, nor cared enough for superior powers to pray. But at this moment, the two ships headed for each other, bowsprit towards bowsprit, he did. And he ran. Towards the ship's stern, away from where the two ships would collide.

The air crackled aboard the Dutchman the way it did during those terrible storms off the Cape, where she had gone so long ago to meet her fate. Her great triple guns slammed back into the port, splintering. With barely a skiff's length to spare, the ships flew past one another, so close they drove each other on, wind in one another's sails. Jones watched as the Pearl's black billows carried away into the sun while he faced the moonless night, his twisting face grey.

Jones regained his voice, but it was thin against the silence on deck. "F'wrd. I want speed, damn ye all!"

The Dutchman obeyed for once and heaved her keel southwards, speeding away.

Groves had barely regained his breath enough to scream and curse as the Pearl took after her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryder examined the cards in his hand with one eye, through his lorgnette. The other, less myopic, was focused on Cutler Beckett's face. He pushed four chits, worth some 30 guineas each into the centre of table. "Raise. Honestly, Cutler, do you think it wise to just ignore it? You're only encouraging them."

Beckett tipped his cards towards his chin and grimaced. "Believe me, I have no intention to indulge these reckless madmen any further. Raise." He delicately dropped more chits on top of Ryder's. "The losses to trade have become unbearable. You yourself must be subject to considerable losses by that rebellion."

Ryder shrugged expressively and pushed another three chits into the pile. "It's immaterial to me whether my godson lays in stores of cannonballs. I'm more concerned about the cannons. Call."

Downstairs, the musicians sweated in their upper balcony while the dancers enjoyed the relatively cool breezes. Mlle. Louise's home was alit with wax tapers and liveried servants scrabbling to serve the dashing officers, rich merchants and their chosen partners. The dancing was still young and the card tables were empty except for Ryder and Beckett

"Double." Beckett leaned slightly forward and shrugged. "Their cannons are only doing damage because they operate in hiding. No more than a wasp circling you over dinner. But equally annoying. If I might see your cards." He put down his own, two kings and an ace.

Ryder grimaced, then tossed his cards down with a laugh. "Oh really, Cutler! With a hand like that you should have bet the moon. As it is, I owe you what? Fifteen thousand? Please allow me the dignity of losing to a lesser hand, will you?" Ryder's dark eyes danced with merriment, and it was impossible to be annoyed with any man who lost so gracefully. "So what do you intend to do? Send one or two ships out and lose them? Again? Perhaps it's time to settle this matter all in one go."

His long, manicured fingers shuffled the cards and dealt a new game. "After all, you have rather the better hand with your fleet. Might as well bet high when you have the forces."

Beckett picked up his cards and met Ryder’s stakes in silence. "The best way to rid yourself of a wasp is a lure it cannot resist. And when it is stuck and squirming, it may be squashed easily without an unnecessary waste of resources." 

"You hang on to those resources too long and you'll find yourself losing too many of them." Sir Augustin peered at the cards, a small frown playing around his mobile mouth. "I'm most concerned about the mail ships. We've been out of communication with London for over three months because of this business.

"Only one of the nuisances," Beckett sighed, pushing his chits between their cards. "It seems to be past time to crush them. I am tired of playing Norrington's game." Suddenly he smiled, as though inanely pleased with his hand, and upped his bet. "It is time to change the rules."

Ryder pushed his chair back to stretch his legs, which were, to Beckett's eyes, very long. "I suppose it is. One doesn't like undue harassment in one's old age. It just irritates the bowels and one's gout." His lips twitched and he pushed four chits into the pile. "Raise."  
"Call," Beckett leaned back in his chair, glancing over the rim of the cards, then at the chits. "Perchance you would consider joining your forces with mine on this issue? It should prove to be a more profitable venture for your trade fleet in the long run."

Ryder laughed softly and lounged back in his chair like a great panther. "Now that's rather what I had in mind, Cutler. I can provide a few ships that aren't in the East Indies. After all, profits there are so much more dependable."

Beckett's lips twitched and he turned it into a smile. "Dependability of profits come with allies and stability in the waters. And certainly, profits even in these backwaters would be most dependable to a man providing crucial support for ensuring such stability."

Ryder's smile was boyish for a man of his age. "That sounds quite pleasant to me, even if it is distressing to consider blowing one's family members out of the water. But that's the price of business, is it not?" He laid out three aces on the inlaid table. His smile remained.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The view from Jack's vantage point atop a little outcropping of rock that overlooked the entire cave was grim. Jack couldn't decide whether it more resembled a giant child's nursery of discarded toys or a field hospital. Neither instilled any kind of confidence at all, but that never worried Jack. Too many of their number had never worn a uniform in their lives and those that had were rapidly losing Navy protocol. And no wonder! Jack sniffed. It was chilly as November in London, excessively damp and the fog seeped into the cave and made the lamps cast an appropriate light for the Witches scene in the Scottish play. "Bubble bubble toil and trouble...." he intoned sotto voce.

No one was listening. Little groups of men peered at dog-eared playing cards with subdued exclamations of joy or dismay, depending on the hand. Others filled the foggy cave with smoke from clay pipes---among the spoils of their last raid was a large quantity of Virginia tobacco which James parcelled out to his troops. Jack stuffed his full and spent a full minute terrorising the bats as he tried to light it from the flint of his pistol.

James himself was sitting at his desk, staring glumly at a blank page and twisting his quill in circles. Spouting smoke like a gaudy dragon, Jack descended from on high to irritate him. "Love letters?"

"If setting up an ambush is Beckett's way of arranging a rendezvous, certainly," Norrington muttered under his breath. "It seems the theft of the carronades has not further endeared me to him." The thought made him grin, the three dozen cannons, brand new designs, applauded for their higher fire power that more than made up for the lower range. 

"I suppose it not being my private conversation lessens your interest of reading?" Nevertheless, he held out the two letters, one the stilted English of Company officials, the other the Grapevine's flourish to which he had become accustomed, issuing a warning, telling the number of ships, signed, as always, with the unfitting wish of fair trades and a felicitous bargain.

Jack scanned them rapidly, puffing out a cloud of smoke that haloed the lamp. "Interestin'. Does it not seem t'you, Jamie, that he's low on manpower?"

He swung himself atop a crate and handed the letters back to James. "He's very particular about which ships he's sending and I do believe there's more in which ones he ain't talkin' about. Where are they?"

The crew was audible as a low murmur, like the restless hiss of a fading storm through the cave's tunnels. Norrington's throaty laugh echoed on top of it. "I imagine in the holds of those ships he does mention, or behind the closest cove." He grimaced. "I would say he has grown as tired of us as we ourselves have."

Jack sniffed. "His bad luck, then. He's not gettin' rid of me so easily. So," he flitted to the desk and shoved papers around until his pet chart was in front of them. "I'd put 'em here, " he pointed. "And here. That may look like a swamp but it's deep enough fer the Pearl."

"Worthy bait, certainly," Norrington's fingers twitched. Beckett himself. It was a trap, and how could he be fool enough to even consider running into it knowingly, like a fish, freshly escaped, that threw itself into the next fisherman's net? He was tired of running, tired of hiding and even more tired of standing down when a fight became too risky. 

He half-smirked. "Deep enough, but narrow. If we manage to block them here," he pointed, leaving the sentence unfinished, waiting quietly.

Jack suddenly grinned like the Devil himself had thrown snake eyes. "James! That broken-down tub we took three weeks back. It's not worth tuppence and it's barely seaworthy. But a skeleton crew could get it into that little strait and make a big bonfire, don't you think?"

"As long as it does not burn too quickly." Norrington's fingers twitched on the map. It was impossibly tempting to bring it to an end, for better or worse: to throw everything they could muster into one skirmish and turn an ambush into a rout of their own.

The rebel fleet had more ships than before, captures, supporters, but the strength of unerring idealism had faded. He saw it in his men: they liked Beckett no more than when their fight had begun months ago, but it was difficult to remember the freedom one fought for when landbound in a rocky cave, dependent on miniscule victories, on needlepricks into the Company's side because any actual fight was too risky.

Until now, he had led with the desire to rile Beckett, scratch at the Company's power, but most of all, without too many of his men dying, unwilling to sacrifice them for the cause to which they had pledged themselves. But now it was time to stand and fight for those who would do so.

He laughed. "The Spartans were heroic at the Thermopylae, but not victorious. Let us endeavour to do better. And hold that strait." He shot Jack a glance, face unreadable. "Perhaps pirates have better eyes for essentials than heroes."

"No returning with shield or on 'em?" 

Norrington looked around their stone prison. "No returning at all."

Jack laughed sharply, without humour. "Aye, aye, sir."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hoofbeats stopped and the carriage came to a slow halt, the gulls screeching overhead. Port Royal's harbour was crowded with marines, busily loading and boarding the ships rocking in her bay. 

Lord Beckett waited for his escorts to clear a path to gingerly step out of the carriage, faintly sneering at the gangway ahead. He did so dislike ships, but sometimes they were necessary. Sometimes, it was necessary to witness a battle, necessary to be certain a repeatedly crushed ant was actually and really dead. 

From the quarterdeck of the Charybdis, Sir Augustin watched him mince towards the gang with a grin. He beckoned to his captain and gave him a few final orders. Beckett wasn't likely to speak sailor's French "Ahh, good to see you Cutler! Careful of the hatches, they're all open." Ever debonair and tailored within an inch of his life, Ryder's scarlet coat struck a balance and contrast to Lord Beckett's funereal black. There was an elegant gilt teatable set up on the quarterdeck, two equally spindly chairs wobbling beside it. "A bit rough, but I'm sure you encountered worse in the wilds of the East."

Beckett indicated a slight nod. "The presence of a teatable in and of itself is a delightful change. I thank you for your generous support in all efforts to civilise these waters, especially this endeavour." He had originally intended to sail his new flagship, the Vulture, but mere two days before they were set to sail, her rudder chains had tangled, her mizzentop broken and part of her keel had burnt. Sabotage. He gritted his teeth and smiled at Ryder. With half the Company's ships off in the East Indies, chasing Swann's daughter and son-in-law, he needed the man's support. 

Sir Augustin made sure that his guest was comfortable before slinging himself into a chair. "I know this is such a bore for you, so I brought my personal favourites." His casual wave included the twenty-odd ships crowding the port, three of which were nearly the size of a proper British man o' war. "Shall I be mother and pour?"


	12. Opportune Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one R-Rated action illustration in this chapter.

All ships are cold, damp and crowded. That was simply a fact of life to any sailor. Add to that, fear of annihilation and the threat of the Company's most dire vengeance made the atmosphere aboard the rebel flagship only slightly more cheerful than an Irish wake. The crew had stopped muttering and skulking. What was the point when it was clear this was going to be the final battle of an ill-fated conspiracy? They had enough rum to ward off the chill and the doldrums and were now attempting to sing away their nerves. It might have been a pleasant diversion---there were several Welshmen with wonderful voices aboard---if only they had elected to all sing the same song at the same time. The result was certainly less grim, but reminded Jack of their barnyard ruse in both tone and timbre.

He picked his way along one gundeck, patting each cannon in one of his strange prewar rituals, and made his way aft. He slipped into the cabin with a rousing chorus that combined several shanties and a hymn into a form that would not be appreciated by music lovers until a far later century. Norrington's back was straight as ever, but his eyes were not on his reports. Indeed, they were not focused on anything at all and he looked quite lost. Jack's lips drooped sympathetically. ' Never fun to go into a losin' battle is it, luv? Even wif a little insurance 'gainst mortality. Poor old Commodore! ' Jack tugged on his pet curl and stayed hidden in the shadows. 

Below the quarterdeck, in the captain's cabin, Norrington only heard the tones mingled together, not the different songs and certainly not the single voices. Aft, he could see the faint traces of sun fighting its way through the fog they seemed to carry from the Isla de Muerta.

Not one of their ships was left there, no one to stand guard, because there was nothing to guard. All men, all possessions, all their fear and all their hopes were loaded on these three score ships sailing westbound, the enormous Defiant in the lead, others not much bigger than a fisherman's sloop.

The feel of Davy Jones' heart next to his own once more unnerved Norrington. With that beastly thing, at least, he held the cards in one part of this battle, and in that he could play only his stakes, not the lives of others, the lives of the men he led into a losing battle. The amount of ships Beckett could bring to battle was frightening, but those were the stakes they had chosen. 

Those were the stakes with which they had to life or die.

He knew he, too, would have had the key to that, to death, equally gruesome as Jones' heart, not as repulsive to behold, but even more horrifying. The Aztec gold. He paused in his pacing, green eyes distant as he remembered himself standing over that chest. It had been amusing then, playing at Jack's terror and worry that he would still be undead, but only because being truly alive again _had_ been so different. Only because with the medallion and his blood, he had rid himself of that thirst for blood, that thrill of power, the feeling he had been invincible. He remembered the crack as Mercer's neck had snapped, the answering thrum from within his bones. The surge of power. It had become worse with every shot, every slice that had not killed him, and by the moment he had stood there, coin and knife in hand, he had no longer been sure he wanted to return it, had considered that he could always do so later, any time, after he had made sufficient use of its power.

He had no wish to unleash that curse again, and by that, perhaps wreak worse havoc than Beckett himself had done, and for centuries to come. Whatever would happen, he would not let the Aztec curse be his heritage. No, he would fight the only way he knew how, and if they could not win, at least it should cost the company its strength.

His laugh was hollow and nervous, echoing in the cabin as he straightened his shoulders and kept pacing.

Jack pouted even harder at the sharp, bitter sound of that laugh. Poor, poor old Norrington. His lips twisted and he squared his shoulders, deliberately making noise as he came forward into the cabin. "Care to share the joke, mate? The only joke I've heard so far was on the Muses of harmony down there."

Norrington flinched, startled, and turned on his heel, his teeth reflecting the faint light. "I am not quite certain I understand its point." He flicked a brief smile, eyes wandering from Jack to the casements, then back to Jack, restless. 

"They're singing. Or howling. Mebbe it's practise, so when they get to Hell, they'll give the Devil a headache. Oh, and there's a game o' bowls goin' on the second gundeck, if yer up fer a round. Worked fer Drake." Jack wondered mightily if James hadn't gone and eaten that dreadful undead organ, his face was so white and strained.

"I see no sign of the Spanish." Norrington's smile softened. "But thank you, I do believe I am in no mood for company. I should... I _am_ considering strategy." A hundredth time over, evaluating factors he could not even begin to guess. 

Jack slid around him so silently that his dark, grinning face seemed to appear out of the shadows on James' left. "Oh, do tell! Mate, if you haven't worked out yer strategy by now, I suggest ya grab yer ballocks and kiss yer arse goodbye. Or I could grab your ballocks." While Jack was fairly sure of his territory, he wasn't quite that brazen and settled instead for slipping one hand along James' thigh, all the while backing him towards the desk. A true pirate, his eyes alight and predatory, Jack was determined to lose nerves and fear in a rush of lust. "Tut tut, luv! I have ya cornered and yer just gonna stand still?"

Norrington breathed in sharply, but his voice was dry. "I did remember your aim to be terrible." Arguably well-placed or not, Jack's hand was hot on his leg, tension letting it tremble slightly. He growled low in his throat, slipping one hand underneath Jack's coat, right on target, hot pressure over fabric.

The pirate's laugh was low, his hips pressing forward against James' hand. "Ahhh, that's better. Much better than arranging' nooses in Port Royal's square. You've come a long way, Commodore."

"More efficient in catching you, for certain," Norrington rasped into Jack's ear. It was insane, on their journey to a battle, a battle that meant so many lives... a battle whose sight they would only reach hours from now, a battle for which nothing could make him more prepared than he was. Anxious and tense, he only needed to reach that battle sane. That being a lost cause, he would have to settle for less tightly strung. He tugged at Jack's belt buckle, pulling the baldric aside as his fingers slipped underneath the sash.

Jack slid one hand around James' neck, the other still toying delicately along rigid flesh throbbing under the linen breeches. Golden teeth nipped one earlobe, his fingers' pressure increasing by infinitesimal degrees. "Efficient as you were in catching me, holding is a whole different endeavour, is it not?" His laughter was dark and delicious, lips as clever as his fingers, worrying at the buttons of the straining breeches.

"It would appear you are quite willing to be... held." Almost delicately, James pulled open the flap of the pirate's breeches, Jack's prick thrusting into his palm. "Is that a distraction manoeuvre, Sparrow?" he whispered, his breath hot and damp just over Jack's lips.

"Let's call it strategy." Jack smiled, leaning up into another kiss, while his hands pulled James' prick from the constraining confines of linen and smallclothes, and stroked with a sure touch. His right hand wandered up under the white shirt, fluttering along ribs and ghosting over one nipple. "Now there's a fine strategy, Commodore, wif yer long nine all primed an' ready." 

"It is called a battle for a reason, Captain," Norrington panted, grasping the back of Jack's coat and pulling him closer still, tense fingers tightening the heavy fabric. "And it seems the guns are run out."

Jack's fingers twitched along the length of James' prick, his hips undulating to bring himself closer, pushing them together: heat scorching on heat, rose flesh burning against amber. "Indeed." Jack laughed again, softly and his hair tumbled forward, the very ends tickling where the most sensitive parts of both strained between his fingers.

James bucked into the touch, sweat gleaming on his hairline. His hand abandoned the field to Jack's, grasping at the edge of the desk to hold himself upright, their scent so heavy he could barely breathe. "At such close distance, you will blow yourself out of the waters," he gasped.

"I have other ideas, luv." Jack's fingers were working again, pushing down overheated flesh, pushing forward skin that burned to the touch until the two were impossibly mated and still his fingers drifted, featherlight and deceptively strong. He leaned up to lose himself in another kiss, swallowing James' surprised gasps.

The back of Jack's palm scraped over the brocade trim of Norrington's coat, his callused fingers playing across both their pricks. James shuddered, gripping a handful of Jack's hair. His breath hitched when Jack's fingers lingered on his foreskin, where he could feel it stretching over the tip of Jack's prick next to his, so very close, closer still when they moved, Jack’s prick slowly nudging in further, pulsing against him. "What are you...?" His words were barely a moan against Jack's lips, shuddering and soft.

"Called docking, mate. Seeking safe harbour." Jack's breathing was ragged, his hips beginning to rock gently, careful not to break the tenuous link between them. "I--- ooh." Even pirates had limits and Jack was nearing his, both hands working between their legs to keep them locked together.

It was truly unbearably close and James could feel every pulse of Jack's body against himself, his blood thrumming. Together they moved, slow at first, then faster and desperate, joined and clawing at each other in frantic embrace.

Jack shifted, steadying himself against James' shoulder, his hand still gripping and slipping as they moved together in tiny throbs and pushes, each feeling like the thrust of mountains from undersea volcanoes. White heat rose from the base of his spine, upward to his brain and he raised his face again to silence their cries in another strangling kiss.

The heat spilled around James and every twitch shook him when he, too, finished. They slipped from each other with a wet sound and he gasped at it, his forehead rested against Jack's for but a moment as he broke the kiss. "Seems you drifted off to starboard." His laughter was damp and soft against Jack's cheek.

He pulled James down to him by the hair, noting with great satisfaction that he was much less white and strained. Jack enjoyed every moment of another kiss while safely tucking James back into his breeches. "Strategy?"

Norrington arched an eyebrow. "All guns, fire away." 

The pirate laughed and took a moment to settle his effects before following Norrington out to the decks with slightly heavier pockets.


	13. Many A Slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one PG-13 Rated Action illustration in this chapter.

Jack had seen many a grey dawn at sea, but this one might have been special ordered for a mass funeral. The sun was a pale orb glowering through leaden clouds over an iron sea that ebbed and flowed and spit against the rails. All that was missing were four black horses and a carriage with nodding plumes, he thought, sniffing at the breeze. Norrington looked like an admirable corpse, his face was so white and set.

Jack grinned into his moustache. His eyes hopscotched across the faces, all almost as strained and ghastly pale as James' in the grey light. He whirled round and plucked at a small keg he had, quite cleverly, placed to one side earlier. "Here! A little Dutch courage all round and let's drink to sending the Company to hell." He popped the bung and heaved it up, taking a long swill and passed it over to the nearest crewman. 

Norrington raised an eyebrow and smirked as the cask made its way. "Now with you sharing rum, I have seen the impossible. Unlike this battle, which is, as you would put it, more on the improbable side." 

He stood at the ship's bow rather than the elevated quarterdeck, and as he spoke, it seemed cocooned by the fog, his voice rising across the ship without the slightest echo. "You all have stood here before, awaiting battle. You fought for King and Country, for duty and victory. You have fought by orders, sometimes for conquest, sometimes for defense, and always for your lives."

"Today is different. Today you fight for Port Royal and for your children, for your freedom and by your own choice. Today you fight for your home."

He let his eyes wander, then set firm as he took a step forward. "Today, _we_ fight for _our_ home. We fight for our future."

He could see the spark in their eyes, barely there, embers ready to ignite or extinguish with a breath. “I know we are outmanned. I know you are afraid. I am, too. But I also know we fight for a cause, with a conviction they do not have, and that every one of you is stronger and braver than each of those landlubber traders.” 

His lips lifted into a smirk, teeth showing, fire in his own eyes, sword gleaming as he drew it. “So, what say you we give them hell?”

For a moment that stretched much longer than Norrington could have wanted, there was silence. Then, softly, a murmur that seemed to crest like a wave through his ragtag crew. Their faces were hard, steel in their eyes and finally the murmur erupted into a subdued but enthusiastic cheer. "Aye, let's have at 'em!" "The Devil take the Company and its scurvy cheats!" "We'll go down down taking' ' em with us!" 

James Norrington was not Henry V, nor had he a kingdom to preserve, but, from the sounds of his crew, he might well have done. Anticipation and a healthy thirst for revenge had ignited battlelust and they were all aflame and ready to sail into hell itself should he choose to navigate in Lucifer's direction. Which, he thought ruefully, was quite possibly more than true. No matter. They were ready, he was ready and Jack was grinning at him like one of the Devil's own minions. It seemed a perfect way to meet fate head on, sword in hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Norrington took in their fleet, counting once more her sails, lingering on the bedraggled frigate they had taken, tall and long, but her foremast in splinters and her mainmast without its topmost yardarm. A bare skeleton crew manned her, her gundecks loaded with powder, but without cannons or cannonballs.

In the distance, he could make out more sails, yardarms turned so they would capture the least wind. Not moving. Waiting.

He looked up, felt the wind on his face. "Keep her close to the cliffs. Force them to leave the weather gauge to us."

Jack was bouncing on the balls of his feet, sword hand twitching. Battles were pockets ripe for picking and Jack was eager to pilfer. The helmsman eased the Defiant into position smoothly and he bounded closer to James, "One of us should get that tub in place, aye?" There was an unholy gleam in his black eyes. "I can take 'er inta the straight wif one o' them little schooners and get out fast."

Norrington tore himself from where he watched Torres signal the rest of the fleet. "Jenkins volunteered." He knew Jack was aware of the danger, aware of what his offer entailed. He also knew that Jack was the man most aware of the crucial timing. Was the man who had done it in Nassau port, blocking the entire fleet to leave the town helpless. Still he paused, his own breath hissing between his teeth. "Yes. Do it. And may your infernal luck hold true."

The golden grin widened. "Knew you'd see my point." He winked and whirled away in a flourish of tattered linen and rag-twisted hair, tapping a half dozen crewmen to accompany him as he headed for the sternmost jolly. 

Their fleet drew closer, and now he could not only make out sails, but the masts, their numbers. The Vulture was not amongst them, and that confirmed the suspicion their entire plan hitched on, that the greater part of the Company's fleet was lying in wait behind that outcropping of rock, lurking for the rebels to tumble into their grasp. 

His heart thrummed hard inside his chest. _His_ heart. And only his heart. Jones' heart had seemed to fade from his head, drowned by concentration, but there when he listened. There, when Jack had been by his side. Now that he was gone, so was the heartbeat. "Sparrow!" he hissed under his breath, stifling the urge to scream it at the top of his lungs.

His eyes followed the fireship, fire inside them. Then the Aurelia came up on their starboard side, signalling, and he focused on her, saluting Captain Rhyves and his crew, salute mirrored by the Defiants before most darted below to the gundecks: her portholes had been carved wider to allow two cannons next to one another, the ship's entire firepower focused on one side, their sheer weight offset by ballast below. The firepower would strain her timbers, but if she made it through this battle, repairs were his least worries.

It was but a short pull to where the Piccolina groaned in the Defiant's wake, listing a bit to starboard, her ragged sails trying to flap unsuccessfully. Jack hauled himself aboard, moving swiftly, and gestured his orders without a word. It did seem a dreadful shame to waste so much liquor, but considering that it was gin and gin always gave Jack a bellyache, it was put to better use soaking the decks and rigging. He tugged at the worm eaten wheel and coaxed the lumbering hulk away from their main force, as sad and pathetic a lead ship as ever he had captained. He could almost hear the laughter drifting toward them across the narrow strait and his smile was vicious. "You wait, little man and ye'll stop yer laughing. Now Madamina, shall we give them the surprise an' you an exit worthy of Dido? Aye....wait fer it ....a little closer and closer." He was dancing with the ship and the wind, risk forgotten as he edged her ever on, until he was within firing range. As he had expected, Beckett's gun crews were too busy with their mocking merriment to bother considering poor old Piccolina. Closer still and he could make out faces in the gun ports. "Just a little more...a little more...yes....now." His voice rose just enough. Less than a shout, more than a whisper, it was a crackle of floating danger. "Fire!" 

All six crewmen set her alight at once and she took flame like dry tinder in a grate. Jack wound a hunk of rope around her wheel, keeping her on course as the flames licked his boots and the smoke began to pour windward. They each grabbed their torches, tossing them down the hatches before scrabbling across the deck. For a moment, Jack was silhouetted against the smoke and fire, then he dove, striking out to where one of the smallest fishing boats waited to carry them back to the Defiant. Dripping and laughing, they congratulated each other and watched as the Piccolina, now an inferno creating her own wind, lurched towards Beckett's fleet. 

She rammed the galleon about to cross the strait, her blazing mainmast surrendering to the flames with a groan, listing to her side, and then with a crash, it collapsed onto the Company ship's deck, flames licking the sails and rigging, spreading with untamed fury. The galleon's crew fled under screams and curses, seeking their salvation amongst the waves.

The strait now was a flaming curtain, the Piccolina and the galleon bristling like a giant six-masted chandelier, their blazing keels blocking any way in and out.

Bits and pieces of flaming debris floated among the trapped ships in the fore, provoking yet more chaos and cacophony. Jack grabbed a line tossed down from the huge Defiant and was pulled aboard before a third ship succumbed to the dancing firestorm. He was ready to pause for a self-praising swallow when he saw James' face and it did not look inviting. As a matter of fact, Norrington looked much as he had on a long-ago Jamaican dock. Jack decided the better part of valour was avoidance and headed into the rigging for temporary sanctuary.

They were approaching fast and command bound Norrington to his place, bound him to where now he could smell not only smoke, but gunpowder and fear, the first Company ship almost in their firing range. "One point larboard," he shouted, waiting as they brought her about just enough to keep her stern out of the other ship's firing range. "Long nines, fire!" he shouted, guns booming to send a doubled salvo of cannonballs flying across the water: the weather gauge more than made up the additional weight to her weatherside and they had the advantage of angle and with it, range. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beckett's teacup rattled as he set it down in its saucer with extreme precision. "This is not what I anticipated."

Ryder raised an eyebrow, "My godson is not stupid, Cutler. Foolish, headstrong, impossibly idealistic and annoying, but not stupid." He turned and barked out another series of orders in patois French that sent crewmen scurrying to the gun decks. The fleet moved slowly to reform, hampered by their proximity, its bulk trapped in the strait behind that clever wall of flame. "Ah well, perhaps he did pick up a few pirate's tricks along the way. One can hope eternally." Ryder laughed and crossed his legs nonchalantly, pouring himself and Beckett a second cup. "Oh, do calm down, Cutler. I have seen more action than you have whiskers and it takes more than a broken-down fire ship to put me off." He turned and toyed with the large ruby ring on one finger, smiling at the horizon like a shark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aboard the Defiant, Norrington clutched to her rail as her keel resonated with her guns, firing a double volley at the Company's Indomitable that sent her mizzen flying. Still she approached, now well within both ships' firing range. 

Smoke rose and Norrington barely heard the grenade's hiss as it flew by his head. With a shout, he threw himself to the deck behind the capstan, hauling Torres with him as part of the Defiant's deck exploded.

He hauled himself to his feet, staggering against the ship's shuddering, shouting for one of the boarding crews to swing across. The Indomitable was only a third rate, and he would have to trust for her to be subdued. She was by far not his only concern, well over two dozen Company ships still afloat outside of the strait, amongst them the lumbering second-rate in the back, her guns like to be a near match for the Defiant's.

Across the smoke and fog, he hollered for all ships to engage, the signal immediately passed on with flags. Suddenly, a near dozen of the Indomitables swung onto the Defiant's deck, shots ringing in his ear. His sword drawn, he fought off two of them, barking orders as he thrust forward.

Lumbering amid churning seas and acrid smoke, the battle lines formed, company ships pairing off with rebels like a Noah's ark, struggling to extricate themselves from the melee in hails of cannon fire, splintering wood and seared canvas. Still the Charybdis hung back, her bulk still and silent while smaller vessels poured themselves into the fray, gun ports open but her cannons not yet rolled out. Jack, hanging from the rigging, watched her speculatively, wondering what in hell was eating her captain before a well-aimed volley made him scramble for a line.

The Aurelia's sleek keel shot past by another third rate, the Iridient, then veered to larboard, presenting her vulnerable stern as though navigated by a landlubber who had never seen battle. The Iridient immediately set on her, pursuing and readying her starboard guns to fire. Between a salvo of grape shot and another blade thrust at him, Norrington just barely caught sight of the Aurelia’s stern flying open, her casements and newly carved portholes, all three dozen of their stolen carronades shoved into them. The shot literally exploded, tearing the Iridient through amidships. Her masts fell, and even through the pandemonium aboard the Defiant, he could hear the screams as the Iridient's crew jumped ship.

Jack whooped and dropped down to the deck in time to knock a few boarders off their feet with a few kicks. "Sorry mate, but yer on the wrong ship." His cutlass in hand, he swayed to and from around the Defiant's stern, poking at whatever seemed aggressive that came his way and keeping one eye on James, who was apparently determined to win this battle all on his onesies. Jack grabbed another line and launched himself back into the rigging, slashing at the fire buckets to send a few more boarders scrambling when he saw her, not quite close enough, but tantalizingly near: his Pearl, speeding towards the battle like a dark shadow.

All his tactics changed. Like Barbossa's monkey, he scrambled his way forward, determined to grab the wheel and get to her, but she seemed as anxious as he. Within moments, she was just close enough and he took a deep breath, shoving himself off the mainmast towards her with all his strength.

Norrington saw her heave to like a shadow on the Defiant's side: the wind picked up, tearing a hole through the soup of fog that surrounded them, dark wood and black sails on high tide and frothing waves. As he looked up, he saw Jack swing across in a flurry of red and blue and curses and hissed one of his own. Sparrow still had the heart, and if it exploded with him on the Piccolina or sank with him on the Defiant, that was one matter. But he could not allow the pirate to escape with it aboard the Pearl if he took his ship and ran. 

He spun around, tearing his sword from another body and in the same movement, grabbed a line and let the force of it take him to the Pearl's deck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryder sat sipping his tea, completely oblivious to the chaos going on around them. He kept well back from the action, and Becket was fidgeting. "This is your biggest vessel Ryder. Shouldn't you commit her?" 

The smile that met him over the rim of the porcelain cup seemed to possess far too many teeth. "In time."

Beckett watched his few ships that had managed to make it through the inferno taking a beating as the rebel cannonades made splinters of masts and wheel houses. "Ryder?" Then he saw the Dutchman and paled. "Augustin, this is trouble." 

Ryder nodded, "I'm sure it is."

"Ryder, that is the Dutchman." Sir Augustin shrugged. 

"And how should that concern me, Cutler? I do not much care for myths."

Beckett rose to his feet just as the first wave of deadly nausea hit him. He sank back down in the spindly gilt chair, staring, "What?" His lips froze around the words, refusing to move as a fearful numbness crept up his spine.

Ryder's smile was terrifying, "A little Italian concoction dreamed up by a Borgia, I believe, or would that make it Spanish?" A tremor ran through Beckett's paralysed limbs, only his eyes able to move. They glared, then slowly, glazed over and emptied. "How perfectly polite of you, Cutler, to die so quietly. Almost a gentleman to the end,". Ryder stood and signalled for the nearest crewman. "Toss him overboard and run up the ensign. Signal a ceasefire and stay the hell away from that burning mess."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment his boots hit the Pearl’s deck, Jack exhaled the breath he felt he had been holding for weeks. He was home and found his way to her helm within moments, staring at Groves who stared back at him, both mouths hanging open without words. A thud behind them and Jack knew he had to move. "Out of my way, man!” His growl was as possessive as ever a man's fighting over his best-beloved, but before any fight could ensue, there was another rush of water and there, beside them rose the Dutchman, her yards trailing seaweed and ragged scraps of sail.

Amidst steel and fire and smoke, time stilled for a second. Norrington barely recognised Groves, then wheeled around to see the Dutchman push through the surface, like a mirror of the Pearl as she had been under the curse. His sword gleamed as he stepped up next to Jack. "I do believe you stole something from me, pirate," he hissed, tearing his blade up to block the ghastly harpoon shoved at them by one of the Dutchman's crew.

Jack whirled and struck out at another blade attacking from the other side. "Finders keepers, mate. Besides," he engaged in a brief skirmish, his back now pressed against Norrington's, "you stole it first an' I think its owner is gonna be on us right quick." 

Prophetic as Jack's words were, neither was anxious for the thump of one boot and a lobster claw on the Pearl's deck. 

"Sparrow! Ye scurvy bilge rat, I'll send you back to the Locker forever and a day!" Jack gulped and spun towards the rail, hoping he could get to the rigging before Jones.

"Strictly speaking, you stole it from Jones before I stole it from you," Norrington's voice was strained, running beside Jack, then he whirled around and knocked his sword's guard against another of the fishmen's head, shoving him away just before the claws could snap at Jack's knees.

Jack grabbed a line and hauled himself up, watching James fall behind and shouted to alert him to another of Jones' crew. "Bloody hell, this is a ship, not an aquarium! Behind ya!" 

The deck was slippery damp and Norrington took advantage, turning on his heel and sliding one leg forward, ducking the slash and aiming his own as he came up, slicing the creature from stomach to throat. He shoved its body away, eyes up in the rigging where Jones was closing in on Jack, a tentacle darting out to wrap around one booted heel.

Jack scrambled up the rigging, pulling the stinking sack from inside his coat. "James? You want it? Here it is!" He threw it to James with preternatural aim, ducking Jones' sword and deflecting another harpoon from below him. 

Jones immediately turned to head for James and Jack stuck his tongue out at the retreating tentacles. 

Norrington caught it with his left hand, barely evading another slash as he slid back. A breath later, Jones was on him, steel ringing as their blades collided and they exchanged blow for blow, neither able to press his advantage.

Jones snarled and hooked his claw around his own blade, adding force to his blows. Norrington parried the first barely, the sheer force of it sending him stumbling. It slowed Jones down as well, and Norrington thrust home, steel gliding into flesh with barely a resistance and just as little effect. Jones slashed again, swinging with both arms, the blade singing next to his ears as he barely managed to dodge behind the Pearl's mainmast. Jones' sword sank deep into the dark wood with a groan.

Jack felt the Pearl's shudder, felt it as no other could and snarled, swinging himself forward to go after Jones. The ship quivered, his boot caught in the line and he was shouting, swinging upside down and slashing madly until Groves fought his way close enough to kindly get him down. "Does she always do this?" He asked, parrying a belaying pin wielded by a hammerhead shark. 

Jack flashed him a grin and sliced through a few gills. "Always. Temperamental girl is me Pearl."

With a snarl, Jones tore his sword free, splinters flying as another shudder shook the Pearl. Norrington had gained a few steps' headstart, but stumbled, a hammerhead aiming for his ankles as he vaulted a stack of rope. He knew he would not land on his feet and flung the heart at Jack, shouting, "You can keep it," just before he fell to the deck.

Jack caught it with a grimace. "Not that I really want it. Disgusting thing." But Jones was closing in fast and there was no place to go. "Jamie!" Jack sprang back toward the rigging once more, hoping for higher ground.

Norrington rolled onto his back and blocked a slash inches from his chest, his wrist shuddering as he shoved at his attacker, knocking him away with a punch of his left fist. With a gasp, he vaulted to his feet, eyes once more fixed on Jones, on his desperate chase for the heart, again within a breath of Jack. His voice cut through the uproar. "Jack!" His arm was raised, hand open.

Jack threw it, twisting away from a swordfish man's wicked snout and kicked another fish of some sort in the knee.

The heart fell just short and Norrington lunged for it, skidding on the deck and grabbing the sack with one hand, the other still clenched tight around his sword. He saw Jones' head jerk around, tentacles whipping through the air, eyes fixed on him and the heart. Jones's teeth bared to a horrible grimace in what was more an animal's maw than a man's mouth, before he turned and kept advancing on Jack, ready to take out the players rather than keep playing their game.

The stream of crewmen from the Dutchman was unbroken, advancing on them, cornering Jack at this very moment.

There had been enough of that game, that struggle, tossing the heart to and fro to no avail. He had known this, had known it from the moment he had once more taken the heart from Beckett. Known it would lead to the inevitable, but he had forced the knowledge away, delayed the decision when it had not been necessary to take. 

But now it was. He had been ready to stab the heart before, mere hours after he had first held it, aware of its power but not its curse. He had no desire for power over the Caribbean as Beckett had, and equally no desire for the even greater and even darker power Jones possessed. The power, the duty to ferry the dead, immortality that came with a curse as great as the Aztec coins and even greater responsibility. 

His eyes flicked over all the ships, rebels and Company alike, floating on the waves without apparent heed to what happened on the Pearl. Responsibility meant making choices based not on personal interests or agendas, personal hopes or fears. It meant choosing for others' sakes. Now, it meant he had no choice at all left. 

He closed his eyes and raised his sword.

Jack watched him in horror, screamed "Nooooo," and lunged forward. He was too far away, the beasties were swarming around him and he whirled, slashing wildly. Then there was a ghastly cracking sound, a groan and a shudder as if the Pearl had struck a mighty boulder. Time seemed to stand still except for the broken yard that crashed down, so close to James he felt the shock of it reverberating to his bones. 

The thrum threw Norrington off his feet and he stumbled, the heart just barely slipping from his fingers before the yard impaled it, crushing the organ to the deck as it sounded its final beat. 

Jones froze where he stood, a sound coming from his chest like the scream of a bullet or the howl of a banshee. Jack was mere feet from him, watching the tentacled face seem to turn to stone, then slowly the tentacles became hair, the undersea appendages returning to human form; only the eyes remained fixed in a horrible glare that no longer saw. For a moment, Jones was human, a standing fresh corpse, then the skin turned grey, desiccated and dried, and disappeared, leaving age-bleached bone beneath. The scream strangled in Jones' throat as the hideous light in the dead eyes faded, the bones yellowed, then browned and crumbled, blowing away in fragments on the billows of smoke and sea air.

The Dutchman's crew froze as one, a shudder taking them and then, as one, they fell, like marionettes no longer held upright by their strings, like fish caught in a net and suffocated. 

Back on his feet, Norrington took the first quiet breath since this battle had begun, the chill to his bone still lingering. His legs were barely steady, and it was as if the Pearl herself groaned, her keel shuddering like the first harbingers of an earthquake.

Jack turned slowly, his face set and strained, eyes wide. Her deck was shaking, her masts quivering so the lines swung like bellropes. Beside her, the Dutchman began to move sidling sideways and Jack's trance broke. "Move!" his voice was as strained as his ashen face. He staggered a step and she groaned again. A warning. "James, Groves, we've got to get off her! Now!"

Again, the wind picked up, an icy hiss against their faces, propelling the Dutchman towards the Pearl in a way a ship could not possibly move. Norrington found his focus and ran to her side, fingers clutching at Jack's coat as he pulled him alongside. Another shudder threw them nearly overboard as he vaulted the rail, trusting fortune and Jack's luck as they jumped into thin air, barely grabbing for a line that swung and slammed them against the Defiant's hull.

Together they climbed breathlessly, hauling themselves over the Defiant's side onto her deck.

The Dutchman and the Pearl seemed destined to slam each other broadside, but the crash never came. Instead, the timbers seemed to melt together as they merged, each ship becoming the other, grey over black, all wrapped in a flickering light that wavered from green to blue to hellfire red and back again, St. Elmo's fire sparkling along their rigging and sail. Jack was transfixed, hardly aware that he was grasping Norrington's hand in a death grip. 

"She's going," Jack whispered raggedly. The ship, fully consumed by unearthly fire, transformed so it was neither the Pearl nor the Dutchman, but something shining and wonderful, a shadow limmed in unearthly light, quivering on the edge of reality. Her sails, now the colour of midnight seas, billowed and she quivered once more, her whole bulk shaking as if caught in gale winds, then she sank slowly into the waiting waves, with hardly a ripple, leaving behind a silence so profound it seemed to echo across the seas of time itself.

The silence stretched until on the Defiant's deck, a cheer rose, hesitant at first, gaping at the disappearance, then, louder and louder when reality hit hard: The Company was no longer fighting, the dreaded Dutchman gone, merged, sunk underneath the waves. "Huzzah!" broke through the quiet, then another until it became a rousing chorus of shouts and song.

Amidst the celebration, Norrington turned, his arm drifting up Jack's shoulder, stillness still enfolding them. His eyes were clear and his voice so soft it was barely a whisper, but still steady. "I am sorry, Jack."

Jack's eyes still strained to the place where only waves rippled, blacker than night, desolate and wiser despite themselves. "I'll see her again. Someday." He tore his gaze away and gave James a crooked grin. "Later rather than sooner, I hope. Clearly, she never needed a captain at all, did she?"


	14. Epilogue - Safe Harbour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one X-Rated Action Illustration in this chapter.

It seemed more than a scant three hours later when Norrington retired to his cabin, discarding coat and waistcoat. The crew's carousing was as dissonant as their lament had been, but far louder. This time, he had partaken, if not for long. For certain, he was relieved, but the weight on his shoulders had gone at the price of a clear course. He had ordered to sail for Port Royal, uncertain what to expect.

Amber rum gleamed in his glass and he turned it in his hand, letting the faint light dance in the darkness rather than bringing the liquid to his lips.

The cabin door creaked and Jack entered. He had seen the pirate below - there had been kegs of rum, after all - but not for long. Not since he had seemed both compelled and torn apart by Groves’ narration of his time on the Pearl. Wordless, Norrington rose and poured another glass, setting it on the table, inclining his head.

Jack's headshake was barely discernible, dark eyes intent on Norrington as he slid the latch closed and crossed the room, immediately too close. His hand wrapped around James' neck and pulled, head tilted up, lips eager and hungry.

James met him with equal fervour, harsh breath the only sound between them, hot on their cheeks. There was no teasing or encouragement, no explanation or taunting, only the one tense hand on James' neck, the impatient other already underneath shirt and waistband. And the warm body pressed into his, strung as tight as he had been.

Jack pulled him even closer, devouring his lips, fingernails digging into his neck hard enough to leave marks. James let him. Let himself be shoved against the bulwark, hissing out his breath when his back met the wood hard, chin tilted up to allow Jack's lips to travel lower. 

Both Jack's hands were on James' breeches now, tearing at the buttons and pushing the linen to his knees before wrapping around him, pulling insistently. James gasped. He laid one hand on Jack's wrist, halting him in his urgency, the other pushing Jack's waistcoat off to pool on the floor. Lamplight reflecting in his eyes, he took a step aside to have enough room to pull off his boots, followed by his breeches. Jack sidled closer again, breath rumbling impatiently when James shook his head and pulled his shirt over his head, shrugging it to the deck.

Then he stepped in again, Jack's lips on his within a heartbeat, insistent fingers wandering his skin. Undeterred, he reached for Jack's sash, unwound it, then under his shirt, tugging it off. Jack helped, confounded and still, when James went to his knees and removed boots and breeches, green eyes intent on dark ones as he rose again and they stood, completely bare and once more, unbearably intimately close. James’ pale hands were warm on Jack’s sides, callused fingertips mapping golden skin and scars.

Slowly, still entangled, he walked them to his bed and sat on its edge. For a moment, he looked up solemnly then lay back and let himself be straddled, one hand around Jack's back, fingertips trailing the line of his spine, the other tangled in the stiff hair when Jack leaned down to kiss him again.

He let his hand wander, thumb catching under the red headscarf and after a breath's pause where green eyes and black met, he pushed it off and pulled Jack's hair free, trinkets chill against his skin. 

[Click here for X-Rated action illustration](http://elessil.lima-city.de/ride.jpg)

 

Jack's eyes went wide for a split second, urgency slowly giving way to an almost teasing twinkle. As he lowered himself onto James, knees astride him and palms flat on his chest, gold glinted off his teeth, the side of his lips lifted in a hint of that characteristic grin for the first time since waves had covered black sails.

James answered with a smirk of his own, eyebrows quirking as they once had on the dock of Port Royal. He let Jack set the pace as they moved together, bared skin sheened in sweat, still without a single word, breathless gasps and moans swallowed against lips and limbs. 

It was not until after they both had finished and regained their breath, limbs entangled, that Jack broke the silence.

"Seems ya took down two more masts, mate!" Jack laughed, burrowing closer against James' chest.

James let him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Men shouted, wood creaked, breaking as axes tore into it. It were not only navymen Norrington heard shouting in the courtyard below his office, tearing down the gallow's platform. Swann had left him to issue that order, had left him to have the Company's flags replaced with the British ensign, had looked to his lead in exactly the same fashion as the other men setting foot in Port Royal for the first time in months.

Norrington, too, had been frightened to see Port Royal, as though fighting from afar was easier than fighting from within. And it was. He heard sounds now, the shouts outside, driven by relief and revenge rather than hope and joy. This city, his home, was bereft. There had not been a raid, not a natural disaster, but Port Royal had lost more to the East India Company than the citizens it had seen hanged.

Or maybe Norrington had. 

He had fought the part of the battle he knew how, with ships' cannons and his sword. When he had needed to, with his words, but he was tired now, at loss as to what to tell a town for which the Navy's "Huzzah!" was not enough. He had never envisioned himself in the position to be the one to ensure more than that, to rebuild a city in which not one building had been burnt.

Swann, however, was focused on other matters, having spent nigh an hour explaining to James how Elizabeth had almost certainly sailed for the East. After thoroughly searching Beckett’s office to no result, he was now rifling through the charts in Norrington's office as impatiently as his missing daughter. James had offered him assistance, but the Governor had barely acknowledged his presence.

His cravat mussed, his wig rumpled, Swann pushed a pile of charts and manifests to one side with a long sigh. "I thought there would be something! Demme me, I can't make anything of this, can you?" He held up one of the charts, clearly brought over from the Indies, judging by the scribbling script that flowed across it. He pulled off the heavy periwig and scratched his head. "Didn't that wretched man keep records?"

Swann continued to grumble to himself, picking over the charts once more. "This is no way to run a colony at all. Things should be in order. In ledgers where a clerk could find them!" 

The Governor peered over his spectacles at Norrington and put the papers down. "Commo--Norrington? James? Are you wool gathering?" 

Norrington turned slowly, a weary smile on his face. "I was indeed. My apologies." He approached the desk and gently pulled one of the charts from Swann's fidgeting hands. "Weatherby. I have checked the charts. There is no indication of your daughter's whereabouts in them."

The old man's face clouded, and James was reminded that Elizabeth was his only child. "I am shocked to see the condition of this office and how---". 

He never finished the sentence, for there was a very loud crash outside the door, a series of bangs and thumps as if an elephant had decided to do a jig on deck, and the door slammed open. Jack sauntered in with a smile, kicking the tar bucket once more for good measure. "Mornin' all, an' quite the mornin' it is. You lot look like an alderman's funeral. Wot's wrong?"

"Tar on my floor, for one thing," Norrington stated dryly. 

Swann looked at Norrington, then back at the pirate, who had just helped himself to a cup of tea and was busily adding rum to it from a flask as well as an alarming amount of sugar. 

"I don't suppose you can read this?" He flapped the incomprehensible chart at Jack. Stuffing half a sticky bun in his mouth, Jack lounged on the desk, slurping and perusing the chart between bites. "Sorry 'bout the tar, who leaves buckets lyin' in wait? Downright cruel, if ya ask me. Aye, I can read it, mate. But I fail t'understand why you might be wantin' a trip to Tasmania. In need of a devil?"

"Already have one," Norrington pointed out, pushing the crumbs off the chart towards Jack. He leaned against the desk, fingers tapping a slow rhythm. "Miss Swann and Mister Turner are missing. To me, Beckett claimed they were dead. To the Governor, he claimed to have them under arrest. The latter being untrue, and nobody having seen their bodies, we hope to find out their whereabouts."

"Oh." Jack mumbled with his mouth full. He swallowed, licked the sugar off his fingers and dug around in his massive coat pocket. "Maybe these'll help. Picked 'em up here and there. Accumulated mail and suchlike." He grinned from Swann to Norrington, bolted the rest of his "tea" and helped himself to another sticky bun.

"Mind you, there was a load of mail he never got to send, the post bein' so unpredictable of late." He laughed between bites. 

Norrington raised an eyebrow and laughed softly. "It would seem he did not quite trust his mailships." He leafed through the parchment slowly, unlike Swann who rifled through it at remarkable speed, discarding the read letters over his shoulders onto the floor.

Suddenly, the Governor’s face turned very red, eyebrows nearly meeting his wig. "Ja...Ja....Ja....Ja..." It took him near a minute to catch his breath, but then he spoke so quickly it was difficult to understand.

"Singapore! She was seen in Singapore! What other woman could this mean?" He paced, shoving the parchment first into James' face, then Jack's, waiting not long enough for either of them to read. "I need to go to Singapore! Norrington! Do you have a chart here?" Already he returned to his prior search.

Jack stifled a laugh and looked over at Norrington, who simply appeared tired and trapped. Jack was having none of that and made up his mind to correct the situation immediately. It had also occurred to Jack that the missive mentioned another woman, and Tia Dalma might well be lurking wherever Elizabeth, Will and their assorted compatriots were gathered. A glimmer of hope for the Pearl burned forever bright in his devious mind. Tia had been the source of Jones' curse and perhaps she could rearrange certain matters regarding the Pearl and her spiritual collision with the Dutchman. Maybe he could appeal to her desire for personal revenge. Besides, Tia was a soft touch and it would be worth trying to coax another favour from her, even at the risk of a deity-sized slap. "Look here, Governor. You've got a job t'do here an' God knows this burg needs you. Wot say you Norrington here and I go look fer yer daughter? I know Singapore as you both may recall, and I doubt yer gonna need us around. Aye, Jamie? You could promote that lively laddie, Groves. That way you, yer Lordship, get to put things right, Port Royal is protected and we'll go find yer Lizzie."

He spread his fingers wide with a triumphant gilt grin. "Heroes all round!"

"Oh, but Norrington, isn't that a splendid suggestion? Now I realise why you kept him around!" Swann was again pacing. "You are much better suited for such a sea journey, of course. And I know you will bring my Elizabeth home safe and sound. You will need a ship of course, no, two ships, three ships! I will see to it!"

Jack looked more like a cat who had gotten not only the cream, but the entire cow. "I knew ye'd see the power of my logic."

During the Governor's ramble, Norrington focused on Jack, green eyes unreadable. Then a spark lit in them and his lip lifted in the hint of a smile, "So it is to be the Governor's daughter after all, then."

"I suppose it is customary, innit? "

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Port Royal's harbour was once more a forest of masts just as her taverns once again buzzed with gossip and barter. Wounded she might have been, but she was not dead and rose, like a Phoenix as the last ashes of the hated Company banners floated away from a bonfire in the fort's courtyard.

The Defiant, under the able command of now Captain Groves, lorded it over the harbour, proving once and for all that Englishmen, never would or could be slaves, no matter where they dwelt. 

Ryder gazed blandly at his godson, sipping at an excellent sherry. "You'll find the cargoes all ready for sale at Calecutt. I have sent word to my agents there already and the profit should be enough to carry you to Singapore and beyond. If you find the time or opportunity, do try to stop in Canton. It is well-worth the effort and might yield further profit."

The crew were busy loading, crates and curses crowding the deck. The Aurelia, now refitted and repaired, was the largest ship among their small fleet, her holds heavy with supplies and trading goods. Norrington was unused to his own clothes, civilian, tailored for the cover of a successful merchant rather than a soldier. "The reason for this endeavour is to find Miss Swann, Uncle Augustin. I have had sufficient dealings with profit and the need for it these past months."

Norrington raised his hand barely, smiling. "That does not mean I do not understand. I have been well informed of the trading habits in the East, of the means of information a trade or a bribe can buy, and that we will have every need of that." Jack after all, had been very convincing in making him accept this pretense and ruse in the first place. "And for providing the means for that, I truly thank you."

Ryder smiled. "I fully expect you to return laden with the spoils of the orient and dripping with debauched notions. It couldn't hurt, y'know, James. A little debauchery can be a good thing."

"So certain people keep telling me," Norrington laughed softly, sipping the last of his sherry, both of them straightening without a word at the same time when the evening tide began to rise. It was time.

"Well, godson, have a safe journey and prove yourself a hero by rescuing the filly. Although from what I've heard, she seems the kind more like to rescue you." They shook hands, foregoing any foreign custom and Ryder picked up his hat and cane. "Fair trades and a felicitous bargain, James." His clipped footsteps faded down the gang.

Norrington had been ready to order sails set and anchor raised, ready to be underway. Now, he stood frozen on his deck, face tight and unreadable. That was impossible. He had to be drawing the wrong conclusion, because how could he not have guessed that 'Silky' was in fact Sir Augistin Ryder, how could Jack possibly not have known..... _Jack_.

 

"SPARROW!" he bellowed, loud enough for the crew to overhear.

 

~FIN~


End file.
